woman's.

"Some other day," said Stubb. "But did you notice those three graves
on the last ridge of sand-hills to the right as we came out of the
Cimarron bottoms yesterday? You did? Their tenants were killed over
that trail; you see now why I hate to refer to it, don't you? I was
afraid to go back to Texas for three years afterward."

"But why not tell me?" said the young man.

"Oh," said Stubb, as he knelt down to put a hobble on his horse, "it
would injure my reputation as a peaceable citizen, and I don't mind
telling you that I expect to marry soon."

Having worked up the proper interest in his listener, besides exacting
a promise that he would not repeat the story where it might do
injury to him, he dragged his saddle up to the camp-fire. Making a
comfortable seat with it, he riveted his gaze on the fire, and with a
splendid sang-froid reluctantly told the history of the double trail.

"You see," began Stubb, "the Chisholm route had been used more or less
for ten years. This right-hand trail was made in '73. I bossed that
year from Van Zandt County, for old Andy Erath, who, by the way, was a
dead square cowman with not a hide-bound idea in his make-up. Son, it
was a pleasure to know old Andy. You can tell he was a good man, for
if he ever got a drink too much, though he would never mention her
otherwise, he always praised his wife. I've been with him up beyond
the Yellowstone, two thousand miles from home, and you always knew
when the old man was primed. He would praise his wife, and would call
on us boys to confirm the fact that Mary, his wife, was a good woman.