City regardin’ the same, you’re sure gettin’
around where I live. Me an’ this gent here”—he
waved his hand toward Pat with elaborate formality,
to the huge delight of his audience—“me
an’ this here gent is first uncles to that kid,
an’ any pop-eyed, lop-eared, greasy-fingered
cross between a coyot’ an’ a jack-rabbit
that comes a-pouncin’ out o’ the wilds
o’ civilization to jump our claim by makin’
insinuations that we ain’t competent to see
that the aforementioned kid has proper bringin’
up an’ that Brother Worth ain’t a proper
daddy for her, had best come loaded for trouble.
For trouble’ll sure camp on his trail ’til
he’s reformed or been safely planted.”
In the significant pause that followed no one moved.
Texas stood easily, looking into the eyes of the stranger.
Pat shot fierce, watchful glances around the room,
from face to face.
“I trust you get’s the force o’
my remarks,” concluded Texas suggestively.
The stranger moved uneasily and looked hurriedly about
for signs of sympathy or assistance. Every face
was a blank. Texas waited.
“I suppose I was hasty,” said the stranger,
sullenly. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen.”
“Consider the meetin’ dismissed, gentlemen,”
said Texas, easily. “Me an’ my pardner
trusts that the congregation will treasure our remarks
in the future. Now, you bar-tender, everybody
drinks on us to the health and happiness of our respected
niece—Miss Barbara Worth.”
On the street a few minutes later Pat growled his
disappointment. “The divil take a man wid
no bowels.”
Ignoring his friend’s complaint, Texas returned
meditatively; “Do you think, Pat, that there
might be anything in what that there gent said?
In spite o’ what we seen of him on that trip,
Jefferson Worth is sure a cold proposition. Give
it to me straight. What will he do for the little
one?”
“An’ it’s just fwhat we see’d
on that thrip that makes me think ut’s a question
av fwhat the little girl will do to him,” answered
Pat, thereby sustaining the reputation of his race.
You’d better make it ninety.
Fifteen years of a changing age left few marks on
Rubio City. Luxurious overland trains, filled
with tourists, now stopped at the depot where, under
the pepper trees, sadly civilized Indians sold Kansas
City and New Jersey-made curios—stopped
and went on again along the rim of The King’s
Basin, through San Antonio Pass to the great cities
on the western edge of the continent. But the
town on the banks of the Colorado, in an almost rainless
land, had little to build upon. Still on the
street mingled the old-timers from desert, mountain
and plain; from prospecting trip, mine or ranch; the
adventurer, the promoter, the Indian, the Mexican,
the frontier business man and the tourist.
