Doaks, a philosopher in some sort, and reflective, could discriminate as to motives. “Rood never done it fur that by itself. I don’t b’lieve he would hev done it _jes’_ fur that. But the way ez ye hev been performin’ sence ’bout Elviry Crosby air powerful aggervatin’. I hearn tell ez she hev turned Rood off, an’ won’t speak ter him, though the weddin’ day hed been set! I reckon he felt like payin’ ye back ennyhow it kem handy.” Doaks drew a plug of tobacco from his pocket, wrenched off a fragment with his strong teeth, and, talking indistinctly as he chewed, continued, the anxiety of forecast blunting the actual pain of experience. “Ef he keeps this hyar up, Mink,—ef it’s him, an’ he kems roun’ shootin’ at cattle agin,—he mought git some o’ the owners’ stock nex’ time, an’ they mought hold me ’sponsible. I dunno whether they could or no. I ’low he war ’quainted with this cow, an’ knowed her ter be yourn, an’ never drempt ez ye hed swopped her off ter me. I wisht ter Gawd the critter knew ye hed no cattle on the mounting, an’ ain’t ’sponsible ter the owners, ez ye never traded with them, but arter my contract war made ye jes’ went shares with me.” He seated himself on the rude fence in an awkward attitude, his long legs dangling, and drew out a red cotton handkerchief with which he rubbed his corrugated brow as vigorously as if he could thus smooth out the pucker in his brain. “Waal, waal! this mortal life!” he exclaimed, presently. “Satan won’t leave ye in peace. Ye may go an’ set yerse’f up on the bald of a mounting, herdin’ ’mongst the dumb ones, an’ the worl’ an’ the things o’ this life will kem a-cropin’ up on ye with a rifle, an’ ye be ’bleeged ter turn ’roun’ an’ cornsider how ye kin keep what ye hev got an’ how ye kin git mo’. I useter ’low ef I war a perfessin’ member, _this_ worl’ wouldn’t stick so in my craw; so I tuk cornsider’ble pains ter git religion, an’ mighty nigh wore out the mourners’ bench settin’ on it so constant, till I war actially feared the Lord would be pervoked ter see me in the front row o’ them convicted o’ sin at _every_ revival, and visit wrath on me. An’ I never got religion at last; though I feel nigher ter it on Piomingo Bald than ennywhar else, till Rood, or somebody, starts up like they hed a contract with Satan to be-devil me.” Mink listened with a sort of affectionate ruefulness. Then he broke forth, suddenly, “Mebbe I mought see Rood ef I war ter go down ter Piomingo Cove, whar the boys be goin’ ter shoot fur beef this evenin’. An’ I kin let him know I don’t own no cattle up hyar, an’ hain’t got no trade with the owners, an’ ain’t ’sponsible ter nobody.” There was a sudden expression of alarm in Doaks’s face. “Don’t ye let Rood know we suspicioned him, ’kase he _mought_ hev hed nuthin’ ter do with it.” “Naw,” said Mink, with a diplomatic nod, “I’ll jes’ tell that whilst I’m a-spreadin’ the tale ’bout the cow.” There was a short silence. Doaks still sat, with a pondering aspect, on the fence.