“No trouble to sound a warning,” says Dirty Shirt. “You’d ask in vain, Magpie,” says I. “I am full of wisdom——” “Don’t argue with that animated flagpole,” says Dirty. “You never get no place talkin’ back to him, Ike.” Dirty was right. I might as well argue with the shadder of death, because Magpie can’t hear nothing but his own voice in a argument, and he knows he can hoodle me into places where an angel couldn’t find footing nor room to flop its wings. I’m sleeping real hard when Magpie comes home that night, and he proceeds to sit down on me, yanks my off ear and yells— “Ike!” I shoves him off and sets up, covering him with my gun. “Ike,” says he, sober-like, “what is there around here that looks the most like a ca-mel?” “It’s a neck-and-neck race between you and Maud S.” “Thanks.” * * * * * He takes off his clothes and goes to bed, kinda chuckling to himself. Maud S wasn’t no relation to the famous trotting mare of the same name, unless you figure back to the dim and distant past to the time when the devil got sore at a balky horse. He tried to haul it along by the ears, but the horse dug in his hoofs, the same of which stretched them ears a heap. When the devil saw what he’d done, he laughed. The horse, being kinda sore, ruined its vocal cords mocking the devil’s laugh. That’s how we got our first mule. Looking at Maud S from all angles I’d opine that she was the second mule. Maudie was long. I don’t think I ever seen so much mule all in one piece. Maud’s neck was long and looked like it might fall off any old time and bust her crop-eared head. Her feet never wore shoes, and the ends of her hoofs turned up like the ends of ski snowshoes. Maud was cock-eyed in her one glass-eye, and her heart was bitter toward mankind. Wick Smith owned her. He tried to sell her to a Piegan Indian, but the old buck got one look at her and said— _“Diaub seahhost! Klahowya!”_ The same of which means— “Eyes of the devil! Good-by!” Of course Maud ain’t no cam-el, but she ain’t so danged far removed as yuh might think. The next morning Magpie gets a heap enthused over their meeting. “We sure planned out some _hy-iu_ festival. Goin’ to be great, Ike. Sacred, solemn and satisfactory from all points of the compass.” “Undertakingly speaking?” “Not this time. There ain’t going to be no guns allowed. Every puncher will have to leave his gun at the door. See the idea? Bill Thatcher says he won’t bring no orchestra, but we’ll have one just as good. Ricky Henderson has mastered the flute, and Wick Smith’s new drum is due here today.” “That’s a —— of a orchestra.” “Yeah? ‘Frenchy’ Deschamps fell out with Bill Thatcher, and he’s goin’ to play his jew’s-harp in our orchestra. That makes three good pieces for our side, Ike.” “Tin whistle bass drum and a pheumonia noise.”