Frenchy didn’t say a word, but we can see that he’s a heap annoyed. We strings out down the trail, and when we’re about two hundred yards from the camp, comes a splintering noise, and the report of a big rifle. Me and Chuck throws our broncs off the trail and gets down. We can hear Muley complaining about things, and we asks him why he feels so cross. “Danged old pelican!” he wails. “That bullet cut the corner off our box!” “You still got it, ain’t yuh?” I asks. “Uh-huh, I got her, Hen, but she almost met her Waterloo on a rock. Reckon it loosened all the nails. Shall we go back and smoke up that old coot?” “Next Christmas,” replies Chuck. “That old coot has got a Sharps .45-70, and the Warners don’t care for that style of death. He’s crazy, Muley, and we’d put ourselves in his class if we went back.” We lifts that box back on Muley’s saddle, and went on. We hits the road, and makes good lime for a mile or two, when we meets Mighty Jones. He stops and we exchanges pleasantries. We comments on the weather, the crops—which theer ain’t none—and the general wear and tear on the human race. Muley switches the position of that box, and the next second we’re covered by Mighty Jones. I starts to grin, but when I sees that Mighty is in earnest I irons my face out flat again. “Hands up!” he snaps, and Muley lets that box slip. She hits the ground and rolls over. I glances at Mighty, and he’s got the look on his face of a man who has seen all there is in life, but ain’t ready to go blind. “My ——!” he gasps, whirls his bronc around and gallops off down the road like a crazy man, holding on to his hat with one hand and fanning his bronc with the other. We watches him fade away in the dust, and puts our hands down. “Of all the locoed actions on earth that’s the sharp end of the limit,” proclaims Muley, sliding off his bronc. That last shock was almost too much for that box, ’cause when Muley essays to lift her she sort ’a’ opened on one end. * * * * * Muley holds his position for a moment, straightens up and gets on his bronc without taking his eyes off the box. He spurs his bronc, easy-like, until he’s a few feet away from that box, and then he imitates Mighty Jones. Me and Chuck puffs away on our cigarets and watches Muley depart. “I’ll likely get scared, too, but I’m taking a chance,” states Chuck, and walks over to the box. He sighs deep-like, and takes off his hat. “Henry Peck, there must be a Supreme Being what watches over fools and cow-punchers. This box is full of eighty per cent. dynamite. Come and take a look.” “Your word is as good as gold, Chuck. That stuff must have a good disposition to stand all that grief. Let’s go home before something happens to irritate it.” We finds Muley at the ford, but he ain’t got much to say. He asks Chuck if he saw what was in that box, and Chuck said that he did.