Away the Hen went a-kiting; and, there not being no hole he could see to crawl out of, away went Boston--only the schedule he run on was some miles less to the hour. To make sure he didn't try to side-track, Shorty went with him--leaving Santa Fé to fix matters with the Hen, and do what talking was needed to ring in the boys. Shorty put through his part in good shape: helping Boston get as many of his guns as he thought was wanted to hunt lions with--which was as many as he could pack along with him--and managing sort of casual to slip out the ca'tridges, so he wouldn't hurt nobody. It turned out Shorty needn't a-been so extry-precautious--but of course he couldn't tell. By the time Shorty had him ready, the Hen come a-hustling up--having finished settling things with Santa Fé--and sung out to him to get a move on, or likely the lion would a-had his drink and gone. The move he got wasn't much of a one; but he did come a-creeping out of the car at last, and having such a load of weepons on him as give him some excuse for going slow. "Good luck to you!" says Shorty, and off he skipped in a hurry to get at the rest of his part of the ceremonies--not paying no attention to Boston's most getting down on his knees to him begging him to come along. Then Boston wanted the colored man to come--who was scared out of his black skin at the notion, and wouldn't; and if the Hen hadn't ended up by grabbing a-hold of him--saying as it was dark, and she knowed the way and he didn't, she'd better lead him--likely she wouldn't a-got him started at all. Pulling him was more like what she did than leading him, the Hen said afterwards; but she didn't kick about his going slow and wanting to stop every minute, she said, because it give Santa Fé and Shorty more time. The night was the kind that's usual in New Mexico, and just what was wanted. There was no moon, and the starshine--all the stars looked to be about the size of cheeses--give a hazy sort of light that made everything seem twice as big as it really was, and shadows so black and solid you'd think you could cut 'em in slices same as pies. And it was so still you could a-heard a mouse sneezing half a mile off. The rattling all over him of Boston's weepons sounded like there was boilers getting rivetted close by.