He'd followed his chief to France and then to Mexico, where the band of Scotties tried to help Maximilian help himself to Uncle Porfirio Diaz's empire. There was a row, and the son and heir of the house of Grunts was killed, old Colin Hiccup fightin' over his body like a red-headed lion in short skirts. It was at night he told me about it, and at this point he got excited. He pulled his old sword down from the wall and showed me how everything occurred. It was as close a call as I can recollect. I'd rather meet an ordinary man bilious with trouble than have a friend like Colin tell me exciting stories with a sword. There were times when you couldn't have got a cigarette paper between me and that four-foot weapon. I was playing the villains, you understand. Well, the Maximilian game was up, and when Colin got well (some lad with no sporting blood had shot him in the head) he slid over to the United States and resumed sheep herding, knitting, and bagpiping allee samee old country. I suspect the boss of the ranch hired Mr. Grunt more because he liked the old boy than for any other reason, inasmuch as he didn't have more'n a hundred sheep in the bunch; besides, what with getting shot in the head and grieving for his chief and one thing and another, Colin was a _little_ damaged in the cupola--not but what he was as sensible as I could understand most of the time--but--well, kind of sideways about things; like not learning English and keeping on dressing in knee skirts and such. What troubled him the most was that no such thing as a clan could be found. I explained to him as best I could that as us Americans represented Europe, Asia, and Africa in varyin' proportions, it was a little difficult to get up a stout clan feeling--local issues would come in. Yes, he said he understood that, but it was a great pity, and on the fourth night I was there he got so horrible melancholy over it that it was dreadful to see. I didn't know how to cheer him up exactly, until we'd had two--perhaps three--drops together. Then an inspiration hit me in the top of the head. "Come along outside with the nightcracker," says I. "I'll take the sword and we'll have one of those dances you've told me about." He brightened up at that, and after a few more drops consented. I felt right merry by this time, and it wasn't long before old Colin limbered considerable. There it was, nice bright moonlight, nobody around to pass remarks; nothing to trouble. So bime-by we pasted her hide, wide and fantastic, with the bagpipes screechin' like a tom-cat fight in a cellar. I was tickled to death lookin' at our shadows flyin' around--one of the times I was easily pleased; I must say I enjoyed the can-can. And then, alas! All my joy departed and went away, for when my eye happened to slide behind me, it fell on a Tonto brave--a full-sized Tonto-Yuma brave, that ought to be seen at Camp Grant, dressed in a pocket handkerchief, a pair of moccasins, and a large rifle.