“‘Huh, me?’ says he. ‘No, suh, but it’s sure annoyin’, this. Here we are in a natcheral temperate latitoode an’ hotter’n South Ameriky. It’s Chinook Bill who’s been up agin all the varyin’ shades o’ topographical insanity, but this is the infinitism o’ phantasy. It will get me nervous yet, an’ I hate to get nervous. But, in defiance o’ my cringin’ natur I’m bound to view the ancient glories o’ the fabled city o’ Poaquita.’ Then he takes another swag at that _aguardiente_ an’ shrinks into a state o’ pensive isolation, fightin’ _stegomyia_ as big as yer fist with meek fortitoode. Then there come a earthquake, which seismic convulsion yanked one o’ our pack mules down a chasm, our coolinary implements attached. Me an’ Chinook Bill sits down on the brink to listen to the musical cantinkerlations o’ tin kitchen ware fer ha’f a hour afterwards. “‘If there be any Injuns within a radius o’ fifty miles,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘that infernal racket will start ’em on the war path.’ An’ we sure soon come across the immegiate signs o’ them savages, an’ Chinook Bill got more reticent an’ lookin’ arful pale under the gills an’ wild in the eye, a drinkin’ o’ that _aguardiente_ an’ the chills. Oncet we was lyin’ in the shade o’ some rocks tryin’ to get some sleep. Chinook Bill dozes off an’ his pipe tilts between his teeth an’ the ashes burns a hole in his jeans. When it struck the sensitive tissue he ups with a wild screech, both guns cocked, an’ fires promiscuous. I see the light o’ the fever in his eye an’ the tremblin’ frenzy an’ I rolls over behind a convenient boulder. It was sure distractin’ to witness sich a waste o’ energy an’ precious ammunition, an’ I begins to yell frantic. He glares tragic in my direction, flops on his stummick an’ begins to wiggle, them Colts barkin’ tuneful. Then I has a arful presentment o’ homicide an’ shies down the mountain with becomin’ velocity, Chinook Bill in hot an’ lusty pursuit. But it wasn’t no use to run. So I intrenches an’ lets him burn powder. Arter he’d gone through his cartridge belt I bombarded him with capsules de quinine an’ demanded him to partake. “‘Are you the chief?’ says he. “‘Shame on you, Chinook Bill,’ says I, ‘to want ter assassinate yer bosom friend.’ “Bill looks sheepish an’ says, defiant: “‘I been shot in the laig by a atrocious vision what sneaked up from behint me.’ “‘Shoo!’ says I, ‘it was the fire of yer pipe.’ “Chinook Bill looks at the hole in his jeans an’ grows absent. “‘If you’ll never tell on me, Pete,’ says he, ‘I’ll bless yer ol’ age with my gratitoode. Come out an’ shake hands.’ “‘Have another capsule de quinine,’ says I, doubtful. “‘You don’t trust your bosom friend,’ says he, reproachful. “I put a hand to my heart an’ repeats: “‘Your sad plight bereaves me much, dear friend, but I am guided by the light o’ a deeper understandin’. Have another capsule de quinine an’ rest yer tired bones in yon cool shade.’