“Howly Mary! His head’s a’most touchin’ yer hand!” Stephens’ face turned to a green pallor as the blood forsook the tan, but his expression of calm self-possession never changed a jot. There was a certain similarity that struck me even at that instant between the finely modeled evil head of the serpent and the man’s clean-cut features. They might have been a group in bronze, those two, for the rattlesnake had stopped, motionless, with his head raised in poise; and not the tremor of a muscle showed the man was living. “Oh damn! damn this country!” whispered Tommy in an agony, “with never a stick nor stone in it! What’ll I do, Stephens? What’ll I do?” “There’s a whip on your plow; send the boy for it,” breathed he. I backed carefully away from the horrible spot, fearful the least sudden movement would bring the man’s fate upon him. Then I flew for the whip. Returning, I placed it in Tommy’s hands. “Now, kid,” whispered Stephens, “step back and wave your coat. Hit, Murphy, at your first chance.” I did as directed, and the little fiery eyes turned toward me. Tommy brought down the whip-stock with such fury it shivered into splinters. At the same moment Stephens made a cat-like jump to the side. The rattler lay coiling and writhing in his death agony. We three humans stood staring at each other without speaking. A great deal had happened within ten minutes, and speech is for commonplaces--not for crises. At last Stephens broke the silence. He stretched his long arms, and yawned. “I feel stiff--sitting still so long,” he said. Without warning, my nerves gave way; I burst into a strangled sobbing. Immediately the two men began to pat and comfort me. “Why, kid,” said Stephens, “you stood the rest of it like a thoroughbred; you mustn’t cry now--there--there, brace up, old man!” Between them they managed to quiet me, and then Tommy turned timidly to Stephens. “How about the trouble between us?” he asked. “Don’t mention it,” said the other, with a wave of his hand. “I don’t feel just as I did a few minutes ago.” He glanced down at the still squirming snake. “If there is a God,” he began, then stopped and shrugged his shoulders.--“Well, so long. I must be going. See you later.” Tommy and I watched the slim, athletic figure until it had swung down on to the coulée out of sight. “He’s a turrible man,” said Tommy, “but not a bad one after all. Well, look! will ye? I’ll be damned if thayre ain’t the bowl of that pipe!” And picking it up we returned to the plow team. VII THE PUNISHMENT AND THE CRIME THE TOO HUMOROUS PROPENSITIES OF BURT MOSSMAN AND OTHERS When he gets a tenderfoot he ain’t afraid to rig, Stand him on a chuck-box and make him dance a jig; With his re-a-loading cutter he’ll make ’em sing and shout. He’s a regular Ben Thompson--when the boss ain’t about! --The Expert Cow-man (expurgated).