"But, as I'm sayin'; about this Watkins over on the Eagle Claw: Thar's a half-dozen of us--a floatin' outfit we be, ridin' the range, pickin' up what calves misses the spring brandin'--an' we're bringin' along mebby three hundred cows an' half-grown calves, an' headin' for the bar-B-eight--that's Enright's brand--corral to mark the calves. It's late in August, jest at the beginnin' of the rains. Thar's a storm, an' everybody's in the saddle, plumb down to the cook, tryin' to hold the bunch. It's flash on flash of lightnin'; an' thunder followin' on the heels of thunder-clap. As we-all is cirklin' the little herd, an' singin' to 'em to restore their reason with sounds they saveys, thar comes a most inord'nate flash of lightnin', an' a crash of thunder like a mountain fallin'; it sort o' stands us up on our hocks. It makes the pore cattle bat their eyes, an' almost knocks their horns off. "Thar's a moment of silence followin'; an' then this yere ontamed Watkins, tossin' his hand at the sky, shouts out: "'Blaze away! my gray-head creator! You-all has been shootin' at me for twenty years; you ain't hit me yet!' "Watkins is close to Boggs when he cuts loose this yere defiance; an' it simply scares Boggs cold! He's afraid he'll get picked off along with Watkins. Boggs, in his frenzy, pulls his six-shooter, an' goes to dictatin' with it towards Watkins. "'Pull your freight,' roars Boggs; 'don't you stay near me none. Get, or I'll give you every load in the gun.' "This Watkins person spurs his cayouse away; at the same time he's laughin' at Boggs, deemin' his terrors that a-way as reedic'lous. As he does, a streak of white fire comes down, straight as a blazin' arrer, an' with it sech a whirl of thunder, which I thought the earth had split! An' it shorely runs the devil's brand on Watkins. "When we recovers, thar he lies; dead--an' his pony dead with him. An' he must have got the limit; for, son, the very rowels of his spurs is melted. Right in the middle of his leather hat-band, where it covers his fore'ead, thar's burned a hole about the size of a 44- calibre bullet; that's where the bolt goes in. I remembers, as we gathers 'round, how Boggs picks up the hat. It's stopped rainin' of a sudden, an' the stars is showin' two or three, where the clouds is partin' away. Boggs stands thar lookin' first at the sky, an' then at the hat where the hole is. Then he shakes his head. 'She's a long shot, but a center one,' says Boggs." CHAPTER XVI. Colonel Sterett's War Record. It had been dark and overcast as to skies; the weather, however, was found serene and balmy enough. As I climbed the steps after my afternoon canter, I encountered the Old Cattleman. He was re- locating one of the big veranda chairs more to his comfort, and the better to enjoy his tobacco. He gave me a glance as I came up.