To punish weepon toters would be the proper feat-- Jest confiscate their weepons an' make 'em clean the street. But Bobby Earl was doubtful of Pierpont Robyn's plan; He thought that cleaning roadways would humiliate a man. "Bat" Blarcum felt as Earl did, an' inferred that Stebbins' scheme Was degenerate an' Eastern an' an iridescent dream. Then Pierpont stood up coldly an' stated to the Chair That Mister Earl's opinions would be weighty anywhere, Therefore he meekly yielded, lest he be crushed indeed By the most substantial leader of the law an' order creed. Now Bobby weighed three hundred an' it somewhat nettled him To be ridiculed in public there by Stebbins, who was slim, But the Chairman wouldn't hear him till Pierpont's partner, Drew, Had made some observations about "Bat" Blarcum, too. Which last, he said he hated to cast aspersions 'round, But he felt "Bat's" plan of action was very far from sound, An' he questioned these reformers whose reform was brought about Through a hate for rum engendered by the Keeley curin' route. He finished; whereat Bobby raised objections an' was pained At the style of Stebbins' language--an' Bobby was sustained. Then Stebbins said the Chairman might be strong an' somethin' more, But he dared not try sustainin' Mister Earl down on the floor! By this time indications made it plain to persons there That a spirit of contention was a-breedin' in the air, Fer Drew jumped through a window as Blarcum slowly rose, While Bobby Earl was aimin' fer Pierpont Stebbins' nose. The other folks concluded it was gettin' time they went, An' started fer the doorways by unanimous consent, While the Chair came down on Stebbins regardless of the law, An' Blake propelled the Minutes at Mister Blarcum's jaw. There'll be a bunch of fun'rals in Coyoteville today; Some well-known ex-reformers in the leadin' parts will play; An' Coyoteville's considerin' this lesson o'er an' o'er, That peace may have its battles as well, sometimes, as war. [Illustration: 086] [Illustration: 087] THE SONG OF THE WINCHESTER |FULL heir to the twist-bored yager gun with its half-inch slug, I stand; His rest was the Forty-niner's arm, as mine is the sportsman's hand. I am king of my day as he of his, from the swamp to the saw-backed spur, And there's never a trail but has heard the hail of the ringing Winchester! I've saved the leaguered wagon-train from the scalping-knife and stake; I have held the lead through the blind stampede in the bison's dust-dimmed wake; By the reeking dives of the placer camp I have killed for a careless jest, And I've raped the loot from the stage-coach boot at the bandit's stern behest. Away in the dusk of the Arctic night, where the frozen rivers flow And the fringed aurora floods and fades on the endless fields of snow, The hardy hunters trust my sights and my spinning bullet's speed