“Yes, old Dodge was sure lively,” he continued, as our train passed
on. “I seen a little mix-up there myself in the early eighties. Five
cow-punchers, friends they was, had been visitin' town. One feller,
playful-like, takes another feller's quirt--that's a whip. An' the other
feller, playful-like, says, 'Give it back.' Then they tussles for
it, an' rolls on the ground. I was laughin', as was everybody, when,
suddenly, the owner of the quirt thumps his friend. Both cowboys got up,
slow, an' watchin' of each other. Then the first feller, who had started
the play, pulls his gun. He'd hardly flashed it when they all pulls
guns, an' it was some noisy an' smoky. In about five seconds there was
five dead cowpunchers. Killed themselves, as you might say, just for
fun. That's what life was worth in old Dodge.” After this story I felt
more kindly disposed ward my travelling companion, and would have
asked for more romances but the conductor came along and engaged him in
conversation. Then my neighbor across the aisle, a young fellow not much
older than myself, asked me to talk to him.
“Why, yes, if you like,” I replied, in surprise. He was pale; there were
red spots in his cheeks, and dark lines under his weary eyes.
“You look so strong and eager that it's done me good to watch you,” he
explained, with a sad smile. “You see--I'm sick.”