The Ram, the Bull, the Heavenly Twins, And next the Crab, the Lion shines; The Virgin and the Scales, The Scorpion, Archer, and He-Goat, The Man that holds the water-pot, And Fish with glittering tails." "Whar's the Bull you mentions?" exclaimed the cowpuncher eagerly. "I jest itches to throw a rope over him." "Well, do you see that V with a big red star?" "Red star--why, shore, I savvys that V since I were a kiddy." "That's the head of the Bull, and that rose-red star is Aldebaran, the eye of the Bull. That's a star you'll find useful some day, Curly, when you're captain of a ship and want to take night sights." "Why ever do they call him 'Aldebaran'?" asked Broncho. "It's Arabic, meaning 'the follower,' because it follows the Pleiades." "I know the Pleiades," said Curly, pointing aloft proudly. "Many a night I saw the Pleiads, Rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies Tangled in a silver braid," quoted Jack. "The Pleiades," he went on, "were the seven daughters of Atlas, and are in some mysterious way connected with the flood. The ancient Egyptians celebrated a festival in November at the culmination of the Pleiades, which they directly connected with the flood. "The same thing seems to have occurred amongst the Hindoos, the Persians, the Druids, and in the South Seas. The Japanese Feast of Lanterns is also supposed to commemorate this event, whilst the ancient inhabitants of Mexico had a tradition that the world had been destroyed at the midnight culmination of the Pleiades. This is all mysteriously borne out by the fact that Taurus, the Bull, whom you have just looked at, shows only his head and shoulders; he is supposed to be swimming." "That's shore interesting as an idee," commented Broncho. "But do you-alls regyard this here flood superstition you recounts as a likely play?" "It's only a theory, Broncho, with maybe nothing in it." "Theeries is theeries, an' facts is facts. I meets a gent once way down to Tombstone, who allows he's the bigges' full-blooded wolf in Arizona. He's shore a tough citizen a whole lot, carries a six-gun with the stock full o' notches an' the trigger tied back. Wall, this here Tombstone sport, which his name is P'ison Dick (an' he's shore p'isonous as a t'rantler) cherishes the theery, an' gives it out premiscuous as a hoss-back opinion, that a 45-calibre bullet ain't able to worry him none; if he accoomilates one he allows he assimilates it into his system, an' don't take no more account tharof. That's his theery, an' as mebbe you-alls shrewdly surmises, it bogs down in the dust before facts--an' it's this way; he's been a-loafin' around Tombstone mebbe hard on the hocks of a year, an' the camp's shore full to bustin' with his goin's on; and I ain't wonderin', for there ain't a moon goes by without Tombstone's shy a citizen an' mebbe a greaser or two, all corpses o' this P'ison Dick's layin' out.