Her using them long words about the way lions did their jumping--being the kind of talk he was used to--seemed to sort of brace him. Anyways--the lion helping hurry things by just then giving another jump or two--he managed to have sense enough to put his foot in the Hen's hand, same as she told him; and then she let out her muscle and give him such an up-start he was landed on the roof of the 'dobe afore he fairly knowed he'd begun to go! Being landed, he just sprawled out flat--and getting the Hen up after him seemed to be about the last thing he had on his mind. "Help! Help!" sung out the Hen. "The lion is almost on me! Give me your hand!" But Boston wasn't in no shape to give hands to nobody. All he did was to kick his legs about and let off groans. "Oh, I understand, now," says the Hen in a minute. "You are crying out in the hope of luring the creature into trying to reach you--as he can, if he happens to be one of the exceptional jumpers--and so give me a chance to get away. How noble that is of you! I shall take the chance, my brave preserver, that your self-sacrifice gives me--and I shall collect, and bedew with tears of gratitude, all that the savage monster leaves me of your bones! Heaven bless you--and good-bye!" And away the Hen cut--leaving Boston high and dry on the roof of the 'dobe, so scared he just lay there like a wet rag. She didn't cut far, the Hen didn't. The rest of us was a-setting around under the mesquite bushes, and she joined the party and set down too--stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, and holding both hands jammed tight over it, to keep from yelling out with the laugh that was pretty near cracking her sides. Then we all waited till daylight--with Shorty, who had charge of the lion, working that animal as seemed to be needed whenever Boston quieted down with his groans. All hands really enjoyed theirselves, and it was one of the shortest nights I think I ever knowed. Daylight comes sudden in them parts. One minute it's so darkish you can't see nothing--and the next minute the sun comes up with a bounce from behind the mountains and things is all clear. When the sun did his part of the work and give all the light was needed, we done ours--which was coming out from among the mesquite bushes and saying good-morning polite to Boston, up on the roof of the 'dobe, and then taking the hobbles off old man Gutierrez's jackass so it could walk away home. The Hen felt she needed to have one more shot, and she took it. "My brave preserver!" says the Hen, speaking cheerful. "Come down to me--that I may bedew with tears of gratitude your bones!" VI SHORTY SMITH'S HANGING