Charlie put the point of the plow in the soft earth and roared at the motor-power. Lizzie started off at a nimble lope. The plow cut a pretty curve and flew out of the ground. Charlie reefed the reins at once, completely turning off the power. Then he put the reins about his neck, grasped the handles of the plow with both hands, and zoomed commands again at the champing power. “Power” jumped ahead. The reins nearly snapped old Charlie's head off, but effectually brought the mare to a standstill. “Vait, you dunder-undt-blitzen apful peelings! You--you think dot plowing is not high-toned enough, yet--hey? Vell, I show you!” He picked up a huge clod of soft dirt held it aloft in both hands and banged it down on Lizzie's back--whereupon she promptly ran away! She galloped furiously to the end of the field with the plow banging in scoops and leaps, and old Charlie, dangling on the end of the reins, flying along in seven-league jumps behind her. As soon as he caught his breath sufficiently for renewed directions, the cavalcade returned to the grandstand and operations were repeated. Charlie had been a sailor before he came to California, and he plowed (?) each furrow with a collection of forceful admonitions, delivered in a voice of thunder, from a different language. It was all the same to Lizzie! She loathed plowing just as thoroughly in wildcat Spanish, as she did in Dutch or Cingalese, and she did not hesitate to prove it. Jim Hutch and Jimmie Greeley drifted down to Rattlesnake at sundown and joined the laughter-weakened group perched upon Charlie's snake fence. “The man grows more daft every year. 'Tis strange, what charms the Widow Schmitt.” Old Jimmie merely growled in his beard. “Charlie, mon,” he called, “the mare is warm and weary, and so's yoursel'. Come on to town for a bit.” Charlie stayed overlong at the miners' haunts in Rattlesnake and it was very late when he started back to his cabin, carrying in one limp, hot hand a jug which he guarded zealously from harm during his unsteady progress. The men still sat over the card tables when the first daylight crept over the mountains. Jimmie Greeley was raking in a jackpot, grinning fiendishly at the dour Jim Hutch when they heard heavy, running feet outside. The door crashed open and a frightened, half-grown lad shouted: “Where's the sheriff? Charlie Price has been hung!” “What!” “On a tree near the Widow Schmitt's. I saw him. I know well the sailor coat that he wears--and his best red-topped boots. Where's the sheriff?” “Over at Ah Quong's, the Chinee store on the edge of town.” The boy ran off. Old Jim Hutch rose impressively to his feet. “Friends, the man ye hae laughed at all day--is dead. The man ye hae always laughed at--and yet, WHO was it that lent ye gold when ye had none? Yea, the gold ye thought it not worth ye'r while to return. Who was ever ready to warm you at his bit fire in winter or to cool ye're whuskey-hot throat with water from his cool spring in summer?