He stepped toward her desk, and she put her hand on his shoulder. He jerked away from her, and she grabbed him by the collar. No dog likes to see a grown-up use his boy rough, so I moved a little nearer and growled at her. “Answer me,” she says, “why did you allow this beast to come into the schoolroom?” “Spot ain't a beast,” says Freckles. “He's my dog.” She stepped to the stove and picked up a poker, and come toward me. I dodged, and ran to the other side of her desk, and all the scholars laughed. That made her mad, and she made a swipe at me with that poker, and she was so sudden that she caught me right in the ribs, and I let out a yelp and ran over behind Freckles. “You can't hit my dog like that!” yelled Freckles, mad as a hornet. “No teacher that ever lived could lick my dog!” And he burst out crying, and ran out of the room, with me after him. “I'm done with you,” he sings out from the hall. “Marry your old preacher if you want to.” And then we went out into the middle of the road, and he slung stones at the schoolhouse, and yelled names, till the principal came out and chased us away. But I was glad, because I saw he was cured. A boy that is anything will stick up for his dog, and a dog will stick up for his boy. We went swimming, and then we went back as near the schoolhouse as we dast to. When school let out, Freckles licked the whole Dalton Gang, one at a time, and made each say, before he let him up: “Freckles Watson was never stuck on anybody; and if he was, he is cured.” They all said it, and then held a meeting; and he was elected president. And me!--I felt so good I went down-town and picked a fuss with a butcher's dog that wore a spiked collar. I had always felt a little scared of that dog before, but that night I just naturally chewed him to a frazzle. BILL PATTERSON This town,” says Squint, quiet, but determined, “has got to be made an example of. It has got to learn that it can't laugh at the Dalton Gang and go unscathed. Freckled Watson of Dead Man's Gulch,” says he to me, “speak up! What form shall the punishment take?” “Blood,” says I. “Two-Gun Tom of Texas,” says he to Tom Mulligan, “speak!” “Death!” says Tom. “Arizona Pete, speak!” “Blood and Death,” says Pete Wilson, making his voice deep. “Broncho Bob?” “Blood, death, and fire!” says Bob Jones. There was a solemn pause for a minute, and then I says, according to rule and regulation: “And what says Dead-Shot Squint, the Terror of the Plains?” He was very serious while one might have counted ten breaths, and then he pulled his jack-knife from his pocket and whet it on the palm of his hand, and tried its point on his thumb, and replied: “He says death, and seals it with a vow!”