disposition he was very amiable. His laugh was enough to drive away
the worst case of the blues. It bubbled up from some inward source and
seemed perennial. His worst fault was his bar-room astronomy. If there
was any one thing that he shone in, it was rustling coffin varnish
during the early prohibition days along the Kansas border. His
patronage was limited only by his income, coupled with what credit he
enjoyed.

Once, about midnight, he tried to arouse a drug clerk who slept in the
store, and as he had worked this racket before, he coppered the play
to repeat. So he tapped gently on the window at the rear where the
clerk slept, calling him by name. This he repeated any number of
times. Finally, he threatened to have a fit; even this did not work
to his advantage. Then he pretended to be very angry, but there was
no response. After fifteen minutes had been fruitlessly spent, he went
back to the window, tapped on it once more, saying, "Lon, lie still,
you little son-of-a-sheep-thief," which may not be what he said, and
walked away. A party who had forgotten his name was once inquiring
for him, describing him thus, "He's a little short, fat fellow, sits
around the Maverick Hotel, talks cattle talk, and punishes a power of
whiskey."

So before Stubb had even time to unsaddle his horse, he was approached
to know the history of these two trails.

"Well," said Stubb somewhat hesitatingly, "I never like to refer to
it. You see, I killed a man the day that right-hand trail was made:
I'll tell you about it some other time."

"But why not now?" said Lucy, his curiosity aroused, as keen as a