Following this, the Old Cattleman and I wrapped ourselves in thoughtful smoke, for the space of five minutes, as ones who pondered the genius of "The Nightingale of Big Bone Lick"--Mollie Hines on the banks of the Possom Trot. At last my friend broke forth with a question. "Whoever is them far-off folks you-all was tellin' me is related to Injuns?" "The Japanese." I replied. "Undoubtedly the Indians and the Japanese are of the same stock." "Which I'm foaled like a mule," said the old gentleman, "a complete prey to inborn notions ag'in Injuns. I wouldn't have one pesterin' 'round me more'n I'd eat off en the same plate with a snake. I shore has aversions to 'em a whole lot. Of course, I never sees them Japs, but I saveys Injuns from feathers to moccasins, an' comparin' Japs to Injuns, I feels about 'em like old Bill Rawlins says about his brother Jim's wife." "And how was that?" I asked. The afternoon was lazy and good, and I in a mood to listen to my rambling grey comrade talk of anybody or anything. "It's this a-way," he began. "This yere Bill an' Jim Rawlins is brothers an' abides in Roanoke, Virginny. They splits up in their yooth, an' Jim goes p'intin' out for the West. Which he shore gets thar, an' nothin' is heard of him for forty years. "Bill Rawlins, back in Roanoke, waxes a heap rich, an' at last clears up his game an' resolves lie takes a rest. Also he concloods to travel; an' as long as he's goin' to travel, he allows he'll sort o' go projectin' 'round an' see if he can't locate Jim. "He gets a old an' musty tip about Jim, this Bill Rawlins does, an' it works out all right. Bill cuts Jim's trail 'way out yonder on the Slope at a meetropolis called Los Angeles. But this yere Jim ain't thar none. The folks tells Bill they reckons Jim is over to Virginny City. "It's a month later, an' Bill is romancin' along on one of them Nevada mountain-meadow trails, when he happens upon a low, squatty dugout, the same bein' a camp rather than a house, an' belongs with a hay ranche. In the door is standin' a most ornery seemin' gent, with long, tangled ha'r an' beard, an' his clothes looks like he's shorely witnessed times. The hands of this ha'ry gent is in his pockets, an' he exhibits a mighty soopercilious air. Bill pulls up his cayouse for a powwow. "How far is it to a place where I can camp down for the night?' asks Bill. "'It's about twenty miles to the next wickeyup,' says the soopercilious gent. "'Which I can't make it none to-night, then,' says Bill. "'Not on that hoss,' says the soopercilious gent, for Bill's pony that a-way is plenty played. "'Mebby, then,' says Bill, ` I'd better bunk in yere.' "'You can gamble you-all don't sleep yere,' says the soopercilious gent; 'none whatever!' 'An' why not?' asks Bill.