"Are you not related to him in any way?" asked Fillmore, prying into things the way they do. "You bet I am," spoke up Hank, looking over at Fanny, and getting red in the face. "He don't know about it; but since night before last I've been his son-in-law." CHAPTER X It was in camp at Sulphur Mountain that the Artist's fate overtook him. The gods pulled his name from the hat by the hard hand of the Hired Man. This mystic event overshadowed the visit to Sulphur Spring--though that was in every respect a success. It was timed so as to give them the last of the dawn--the splendid flood of rare light which precedes the first cast of his noose by the Hunter of the East--and both eye and camera caught beautifully the myriads of steam spirals ascending from the hill, each from its own vent. The spring itself, the Poet compared to the daily press, in that it made a mighty and unceasing pother and dribbled out a mighty small amount of run-off--and that the output stained everything with which it came in contact a bright yellow. "No matter what it splashes," said he, "stick or stone, church, family or court, it yellows it." "Speaking of courts," said the Artist, "and the law--I think our friends the Colonel and Bill have dealt altogether too flippantly with them. I shall give you another view to-night." * * * * * "Do you notice," said the Bride, "how peaceful and sort of comforting the river is? It is as placid as a lake--or some deep river--like the Thames--made for pleasure boats and freighters." "See the trout leap!" shouted the Colonel. "Well," said Aconite, "you jest watch that river, an' it'll surprise yeh. It ain't reformed yit, if it hez sobered up. An' right here--Whoa!" They were at the crossing of Alum Creek, and Aconite halted to point out matters of interest.