“I got to get away from here,” states Wick, after we discusses the weather a while. “Every season I lives here brings me that much nearer the grave. I want to take a pardner into my store, and while I ain’t decided exactly about it, I comes up here to have a talk with Muley. I needs new blood in my place, and I got to have a married man, which has a little money. Sabe?” “You got any sheep?” I asks. Wick sets up straight and glares at me. “Sheep? I’m a merchant—not a shepherd!” “Wool is good for rheumatism,” says I, offhand-like, trying to smooth over my mistake. “If you’re looking for a married man with money you sure got into the wrong pew, Mister Smith,” states Muley. “Zeb told me that you had an aunt—” begins Wick, wise-like, and then: “_Squr-r-r-r-reek! Meo-o-o-o-o-ow! Yip, yip, yip!_” First comes Amelia. She’s traveling so blamed fast that she looks like a string of about six cats. Right behind her comes that coyote pup, digging deep into his soul for joyful sounds, and behind him, screeching and screaming comes Alfred, and they invades the parlor. Wick hops to his feet as they enters, and of course he’s the highest point in the room. A cat will always hit for elevation—therefore Wick got Amelia. Me and Muley sort of draws back to keep the score, but things happens too fast for computation. Amelia draws all four feet together in Wick’s scalp, the same of which makes Wick wrinkle up his face, and forget the rheumatism in his legs. The bird and the coyote don’t do much except cut circles until Wick starts, blind-like to leave there, and falls over a chair. Wick turns over once, lands on his hands and knees, and pilgrims out of the door, with the cat prospecting his dandruff, Alfred hopping up and down on his back, and the coyote pup hanging on to his coattails, and skidding along, making little snappy barks of delight. They all rolls off the porch, where the three animals tangles up, leaving Wick alone. He forks his bronc in a hurry, and sets there rubbing the haze out of his eyes. Amelia is setting a new cross-country record for cats, as she hunts for a high spot, and the pup is singing along right behind her. Alfred walks circles around a post for a few seconds, and then flutters to the top of the hitch-rack. He ruffles up what feathers he’s got left, cocks his head on one side and screeches: “Har, har, har! Sheep dip! Who’s crazy?” “My gosh!” explodes Wick. “That cyclone hit me so hard that I can see green eagles and hear ’em talk!” and he backs his bronc away, cautious-like, and leaves us in a hurry. Me and Muley looks at each other for a while, and then Muley yawns: “I must have lost that piece of letter where Zeb could find it. Well, it didn’t say nothing about buying sheep, anyway, Hen.”