Bill don’t have to study none to tell that thar’s somebody goin’ to get action. It’s likely to be mighty onequal, but thar’s no he’p; an’ so Bill pulls his gun-belt tighter, an’ organizes to go as far as he can. He has with him only one six-shooter; that’s a severe setback. Now, if he was packin’ two the approaching war jig would have carried feachers of comfort. But he’s got a nine-inch bowie, which is some relief. When his six-shooter’s empty, he can fall back on the knife, die hard, an’ leave his mark. As Bill rolls the cylinder of his gun to see if she’s workin’ free, an’ loosens the bowie to avoid delays, his eye falls on a rifle hangin’ above the door. “Is it loaded, Jule?” asks Bill. “Loaded to the gyards,” says the widow. “An’ that ain’t no fool of a piece of news, neither,” says Bill, as he reaches down the rifle. “Now, Jule, you-all better stampede into the cellar a whole lot ontil further orders. Thar’s goin’ to be heated times ’round yere an’ you’d run the resk of gettin’ scorched.” “I’d sooner stay an’ see, Bill,” says the widow. “You-all knows how eager an’ full of cur’osity a lady is,” an’ here the widow beams on Bill an’ simpers coaxin’ly. “An’ I’d shore say stay, Jule,” says Bill, “if you could turn a trick. But you sees yourse’f, you couldn’t. An’ you’d be in the way.” Thar’s a big burrow out in the yard; what Kansas people deenominates as a cyclone cellar. It’s like a cave; every se’f-respectin’ Kansas fam’ly has one. They may not own no bank account; they may not own no good repoote; but you can gamble, they’ve got a cyclone cave. Shore, it ain’t for ornament, nor yet for ostentation. Thar’s allers a breeze blowin’ plenty stiff across the plains. Commonly, it’s strenyous enough to pick up a empty bar’l an’ hold it ag’inst the side of a buildin’ for a week. Sech is the usual zephyr. Folks don’t heed them none. But now an’ then one of these yere cyclones jumps a gent’s camp, an’ then it’s time to make for cover. Thar’s nothin’ to be said back to a cyclone. It’ll take the water outen a well, or the money outen your pocket, or the ha’r off your head; it’ll get away with everything about you incloodin’ your address. Your one chance is a cyclone cellar; an’ even that refooge ain’t no shore-thing, for I knowed a cyclone once that simply feels down an’ pulls a badger outen his hole. Still, sech as the last, is onfrequent. The widow accepts Bill’s advice an’ makes for the storm cave. This leaves Bill happy an’ easy in his mind, for it gives him plenty of room an’ nothin’ to think of but himse’f. An’ Bill shore admires a good fight. He don’t have long to wait after the widow stampedes. Bill hears the sweep of the ’leven McCandlas hosses as they come chargin’ up. No, he can’t see; he ain’t quite that weak-minded as to be lookin’ out the window. As the band halts, Bill hears McCandlas say: