In the Garden of the Gods By William McLeod Raine When one is in the Garden of the Gods one should be, I suppose, in Elysian humor. My mood, to the contrary, for private reasons of my own, was thunderous. I lay on my elbow among the kinni-kinic where I had flung myself down in the shade of a silver spruce. But the sun was higher now, and its rare, untempered beat was on me. Naturally I used the shifting orb as a text on the futility of life. What was the use of arranging things comfortably when they always disarranged themselves as promptly as possible? Now, there was Katherine— The sound of a revolver cracked into my sombre discontent. Hard on its echoes came the slap of running feet, and, as I guessed, the swish of petticoats. A raucous command to stop brought me to my feet instantly. It also brought the runner to a halt just out of my sight beyond the shoulder of the hill. “I dare you to touch me,” panted a high-pitched voice that struck in me a bell of recognition. “I’m not going to hurt you,” replied he of the hoarse bellow, soothingly. “You know that mighty well.” “If you put a finger on me I’ll cry for help.” “There wouldn’t anybody hear, Miss,” replied the heavy bass. “You—you coward!” Her voice was like a whip. “Oh, you can call me anything you like but you got to go along with me, Miss,” he said sullenly. “I’ll not go a step.” “I reckon you got to go, lady.” “May I go, too?” My contribution to the conversation came from the knoll just above them. [Illustration: “My contribution to the conversation came from just above them.”] They whirled as at the press of a button. The man was a huge hulking fellow in corduroys, but he did not look the villain by a long shot. Indeed, his guileless face, lit with amazement at my words, begged to offer a guarantee of honesty. Here certainly was no finished desperado. The first glimpse of him relieved my mind. We were in no personal danger at least. “Who in time are you?” he wanted to know. “Tavis Q. Damron, at your service. And you—since introductions are going?” The young woman—she was a Miss Katherine Gray, stopping at the same hotel as I at Manitou—promptly took the opportunity to slip behind my back. For me, I was in a glow of triumph. It had not been twenty-four hours since Miss Gray had informed me that she meant never to speak again to me. And already the favoring gods had brought her to me on the run. In my relation I felt myself a match for a score of lowering countrymen. “He shot at me,” she cried over my shoulder. “It went off accidentally,” protested the man. “I don’t care. He shot.” “He’ll not do it again,” I promised, complacently. My unlucky triumph must have crept into my voice. I felt her appraise with deliberate eye my sixty-six scant inches. Nothing “hips” me more than an inference that I am short. To be sure, I am not a giant physically. Neither was Napoleon. “I’m sorry not to meet with your approbation,” I said huffily.