I landed in the river flat on my stummick and found out that a feller don’t have to learn to swim in order to do it. All the wind is out of my carcass, but I sure done some fancy crawling until I lands on a sandbar down the river and pumps some more wind into my system. In my pocket is a bottle of “Track Annihilator,” and I immediate and soon finds the need of a stimulant. I hauls it out, removes the stopper and squints through it at the sun. “Blam!” That bottle fades out of my hand, and all I’ve got left is the cork. The next bullet cuts a rosette off my chaps; so I slides into the water like an alligator and proceeds to waller off downstream. I may die from drowning—I say may, ’cause I’m taking a chance—but it’s a cinch that if I stay on that sand-bar any longer that _hombre_ with the rifle is going to improve with practise, which will spoil all of Henry Peck’s future ambitions. I hears a few more shots before I grabs a willer and hauls myself out into the high grass. I’m too tired to hunt for information; so I rusticates there until I hears somebody tramping grass and grunting: “Gol dang ’em! Gol dang ’em! Hope I drownded the whole mess of pups. Hope I leaded up all that didn’t drown. Half-witted horse-wranglers. No brains! Race right into me and my load of dynamite. Too bad it didn’t bust and blow ’em all to ——! Team runs away and leaves me on the wrong side. Gol dang——” “Wick Smith, throw up your hands,” says I sweet-like. He drops his gun and grabs atmosphere. “Toss that rifle into the brush,” says I, and he reaches down like a nice little feller and obeys. I takes it and throws it further into the woods, and then I walks out to him. “Hello, Wick,” says I. “How’s things in Piperock?” “Tolable, Hen. How’s the Cross J these nice days? Where’s your gun?” “Lost it in the river,” says I. * * * * * We looks at each other for a while, and then he says— “What was your hurry a while ago, Hen?” “Runaway. Strange lady comes in on the train, and we’re going to take her to—I wonder where we was going to take her, Wick?” “My gosh, didn’t you have no place picked out?” “Maybe Telescope did. Well, she got in the buckboard, and the team runs away, and we thought you was it, and—well, what’s the matter with you?” “Strange lady came in on the train?” he gasps. “What did she look like?” “Morn in Spring,” says I. “She had hair and eyes and a mouth and——” “Great lovely dove!” he whoops. “That’s her to a flea’s flicker.” “Who?” “My wife’s sister, Amelia. My ——! She ain’t due yet.” “Came today,” says I. “Came today, and——” “Went away,” says a sad voice, and there stands Muley, Telescope and Chuck. They sure are something for to see. They look like they had been made of mud and hadn’t dried out yet. “It was fate,” says Muley, digging the ooze out of his eye.