The Luck of Hardrobe.
"Which I tells this yere narrative first, back in one of them good old
Red Light evenin's when it's my turn to talk."
The Old Cattleman following this remark, considered me for a moment in
silence. I had myself been holding the floor of discussion in a way both
rambling and pointless for some time. I had spoken of the national
fortune of Indians, their superstitions, their ill-luck, and other savage
subjects various and sundry. My discourse had been remarkable perhaps
for emphasis rather than accuracy; and this too held a purpose. It was
calculated to rouse my raconteur and draw him to a story. Did what I say
lack energy, he might go to sleep in his chair; he had done this more
than once when I failed of interest. Also, if what I told were wholly
true and wanting in ripple of romantic error, even though my friend did
me the compliment of wakefulness, he would make no comment. Neither was
he likely to be provoked to any recital of counter experiences. At last,
however, he gave forth the observation which I quote above and I saw that
I had brought him out. I became at once wordless and, lighting a cigar,
leaned back to listen.
"As I observes," he resumed, following a considerable pause which I was
jealous to guard against word or question of my own; "I tells this tale
to Colonel Sterett, Old Man Enright, an' the others one time when we're
restin' from them Wolfville labours of ours an' renooin' our strength
with nosepaint in the Red Light bar. Jest as you does now, Dan Boggs
takes up this question of luck where Cherokee Hall abandons it, an'
likewise the subject of savages where Texas Thompson lays 'em down, an'
after conj'inin' the two in fashions I deems a heap weak, allows that
luck is confined strictly to the paleface; aborigines not knowin'
sufficient to become the target of vicissitoodes, excellent or otherwise.
"'Injuns is too ignorant to have what you-all calls "luck,"' says Dan.
'That gent who's to be affected either up or down by "luck" has got to
have some mental cap'bilities. An' as Injuns don't answer sech
deescriptions, they ain't no more open to "luck" than to enlight'ment.
"Luck" an' Injuns when took together, is preepost'rous! It's like
talkin' of a sycamore tree havin' luck. Gents, it ain't in the deck!'
An' tharupon Dan seals his views by demandin' of Black Jack the bottle
with glasses all 'round.
"'When it comes to that, Boggs,' says Colonel Sterett, as he does Dan
honour in four fingers of Valley Tan, 'an' talkin' of luck, I'm yere to
offer odds that the most poignant hard-luck story on the list is the
story of Injuns as a race. An' I won't back-track their game none
further than Columbus at that. The savages may have found life a
summer's dream prior to the arrival of that Eytalian mariner an' the
ornery Spainiards he surrounds himse'f with. But from the looks of the
tabs, the deal since then has gone ag'inst 'em. The Injuns don't win
once. White folks, that a-way, is of themse'fs bad luck incarnate to
Injuns. The savage never so much as touches 'em or listens to 'em or
imitates 'em, but he rots down right thar. Which the pale-face shorely
kills said Injuns on the nest! as my old grand-dad used to say.'
"'When I recalls the finish of Hardrobe,' I remarks, sort o' cuttin' into
the argyment, the same bein' free an' open to all, 'an' I might add by
way of a gratootity in lines of proof, the finish of his boy, Bloojacket,
I inclines to string my chips with Colonel Sterett.'
"'Give us the details concernin' this Hardrobe,' says Doc Peets. 'For
myse'f, I'm prone an' eager to add to my information touchin' Injuns at
every openin'.'
"As Enright an' the rest makes expression sim'lar, I proceeds to
onbuckle. I don't claim much for the tale neither. Still, I wouldn't
copper it none for it's the trooth, an' the trooth should allers be
played 'open' every time. I'll tell you-all this Hardrobe story as I
onfolds it to them."
It was here my friend began looking about with a vaguely anxious eye. I
saw his need and pressed the button.
"I was aimin' to summon my black boy, Tom," he said.
When a moment later his favourite decanter appeared in the hands of one
of the bar-boys of the hostelry, who placed it on a little table at his
elbow and withdrew, the necessity for "Tom" seemed to disappear, and
recurring to Hardrobe, he went on.
"Hardrobe is a Injun--a Osage buck an' belongs to the war clan of his
tribe. He's been eddicated East an' can read in books, an' pow-wows
American mighty near as flooent as I does myse'f. An' on that last p'int
I'll take a chance that I ain't tongue-tied neither.
"Which this yere is a long time ago. Them is days when I'm young an'
lithe an' strong. I can heft a pony an' I'm six foot two in my
moccasins. No, I ain't so tall by three inches now; old age shortens a
gent up a whole lot.
"My range is on the south bank of Red River--over on the Texas side.
Across on the no'th is the Nation--what map folks call the 'Injun
Territory.' In them epocks we experiences Injuns free an' frequent, as
our drives takes us across the Nation from south to no'th the widest way.
We works over the old Jones an' Plummer trail, which thoroughfare I
alloodes to once or twice before. I drives cattle over it an' I freights
over it,--me an' my eight-mule team. An' I shorely knows where all the
grass an' wood an' water is from the Red River to the Flint Hills.
"Speakin' of the Jones an' Plummer trail, I once hears a dance-hall girl
who volunteers some songs over in a Tucson hurdygurdy, an' that maiden
sort o' dims my sights some. First, she gives us _The Dying Ranger_, the
same bein' enough of itse'f to start a sob or two; speshul when folks is,
as Colonel Sterett says, 'a leetle drinkin'.' Then when the public
clamours for more she sings something which begins:
"'Thar's many a boy who once follows the herds,
On the Jones an' Plummer trail;
Some dies of drink an' some of lead,
An' some over kyards, an' none in bed;
But they're dead game sports, so with naught but good words,
We gives 'em "Farewell an' hail."'
"Son, this sonnet brings down mem'ries; and they so stirs me I has to
_vamos_ that hurdygurdy to keep my emotions from stampedin' into tears.
Shore, thar's soft spots in me the same as in oilier gents; an' that
melody a-makin' of references to the old Jones an' Plummer days comes
mighty clost to meltin' everything about me but my guns an' spurs.
"This yere cattle business ain't what it used to be; no more is
cow-punchers. Things is gettin' effete. These day it's a case of chutes
an' brandin' pens an' wire fences an' ten-mile pastures, an' thar's so
little ropin' that a boy don't have practice enough to know how to catch
his pony.
"In the times I'm dreamin' of all this is different. I recalls how we
frequent works a month with a beef herd, say of four thousand head, out
on the stark an' open plains, ropin' an' throwin' an' runnin' a
road-brand onto 'em. Thar's a dozen different range brands in the bunch,
mebby, and we needs a road-brand common to 'em all, so in case of
stampedes on our trip to the no'th we knows our cattle ag'in an' can pick
'em out from among the local cattle which they takes to minglin' with.
It's shorely work, markin' big strong steers that-away! Throwin' a
thousand-pound longhorn with a six hundred-pound cayouse is tellin' on
all involved an' a gent who's pitchin' his rope industrious will wear
down five broncos by sundown.
"It's a sharp winter an' cattle dies that fast they simply defies the
best efforts of ravens an' coyotes to get away with the supply. It's
been blowin' a blizzard of snow for weeks. The gales is from the no'th
an' they lashes the plains from the Bad Lands to the Rio Grande. When
the storm first prounces on the cattle up yonder in the Yellowstone
country, the he'pless beasts turns their onprotestin' tails and begins to
drift. For weeks, as I remarks, that tempest throws itse'f loose, an'
night an' day, what cattle keeps their feet an' lives, comes driftin' on.
"Nacherally the boys comes with 'em. Their winter sign-camps breaks up
an' the riders turns south with the cattle. No, they can't do nothin';
you-all couldn't turn 'em or hold 'em or drive 'em back while the storm
lasts. But it's the dooty of the punchers to keep abreast of their
brands an' be thar the moment the blizzard abates.
"It's shore a spectacle! For a wild an' tossin' front of five hundred
miles, from west to east, the storm-beat herds comes driftin'. An'
ridin' an' sw'arin' an' plungin' about comes with 'em the boys on their
broncos. They don't have nothin' more'n the duds on their backs, an'
mebby their saddle blankets an' slickers. But they kills beef to eat as
they needs it, an' the ponies paws through the snow for grass, an' they
exists along all right. For all those snow-filled, wind-swept weeks
they're ridin' an' cussin'. They comes spatterin' through the rivers,
an' swoopin' an' whoopin' over the divides that lays between. They
crosses the Heart an' the Cannon Ball an' the Cheyenne an' the White an'
the Niobrara an' the Platte an' the Republican an' the Solomon an' the
Smoky an' the Arkansaw, to say nothin' of the hundreds of forks an'
branches which flows an' twines an' twists between; an' final, you runs
up on boys along the Canadian who's come from the Upper Missouri. An' as
for cattle! it looks like it's one onbroken herd from Fort Elliot to
where the Canadian opens into the Arkansaw!
"The chuck waggons of a thousand brands ain't two days behind the boys,
an' by no time after that blizzard simmers, thar's camp-fires burnin' an'
blinkin' between the Canadian an' the Red all along from the Choctaw
country as far west as the Panhandle. Shore, every cow-puncher makes for
the nearest smoke, feeds up an' recooperates; and then he with the others
begins the gatherin' of the cattle an' the slow northern drive of the
return. Which the spring overtakes 'em an' passes 'em on it's way to the
no'th, an' the grass is green an' deep before ever they're back on their
ranges ag'in.
"It's a great ride, says you? Son, I once attends where a lecture sharp
holds forth as to Napoleon's retreat from Moscow. As was the proper
thing I sets silent through them hardships. But I could, it I'm disposed
to become a disturbin' element or goes out to cut loose cantankerous an'
dispootatious in another gent's game, have showed him the French
experiences that Moscow time is Sunday school excursions compared with
these trips the boys makes when on the breath of that blizzard they
swings south with their herds. Them yooths, some of 'em, is over eight
hundred miles from their home-ranch; an' she's the first an' only time I
ever meets up with a Yellowstone brand on the Canadian.
"You-all can put down a bet I'm no idle an' listless looker-on that
blizzard time; an' I grows speshul active at the close. It behooves us
Red River gents of cattle to stir about. The wild hard-ridin'
knight-errants of the rope an' spur who cataracts themse'fs upon us with
their driftin' cattle doorin' said tempest looks like they're plenty
cap'ble of drivin' our steers no'th with their own, sort o' makin' up the
deeficiencies of the storm.
"I brands over four thousand calves the spring before, which means I has
at least twenty thousand head,--or five times what I
brands--skallihootin' an' hybernatin' about the ranges. An' bein' as
you-all notes some strong on cattle, an' not allowin' none for them
Yellowstone adventurers to drive any of 'em no'th, I've got about 'leven
outfits at work, overhaulin' the herds an' round-ups, an' ridin' round
an' through 'em, weedin' out my brand an' throwin' 'em back on my Red
River range. I has to do it, or our visitin' Yellowstone guests would
have stole me pore as Job's turkey.
"Whatever is a 'outfit' you asks? It's a range boss, a chuck waggon with
four mules an' a range cook, two hoss hustlers to hold the ponies, eight
riders an' a bunch of about seventy ponies--say seven to a boy. These
yere 'leven outfits I speaks of is scattered east an' west mebby she's
a-hundred miles along the no'th fringe of my range, a-combin' an'
a-searchin' of the bunches an' cuttin' out all specimens of my brand when
found. For myse'f, personal, I'm cavortin' about on the loose like,
stoppin' some nights at one camp' an' some nights at another, keepin'
cases on the deal.
"It's at one of my camps one evenin' when I crosses up first with this
yere Hardrobe. His boy, Bloojacket, is with him. Hardrobe himse'f is
mebby goin' on fifty, while Bloojacket ain't more'n say twenty-one.
Shore, they're out for cattle, too; them savages has a heap of cattle,
an' since they finds their brands an' bunches same as the rest of us all
tangled up with the Yellowstone aliens doorin' the blizzard, Hardrobe an'
his boy Bloojacket rides up an' asks can they work partners with a outfit
of mine.
"As I explains previous I'm averse to Injuns, but this Hardrobe is a
onusual Injun; an' as he's settin' in ag'inst a stiff game the way things
is mixed up, an' bein' only him an' his boy he's too weak to protect
himse'f, I yields consent, I yields the more pleasant for fear,--since I
drives through the Osage country now an' then--this Hardrobe an' his heir
plays even by stampedin' my cattle some evenin' if I don't. Thar's
nothin' like a dash of se'f-interest to make a gent urbane, an' so I
invites Hardrobe an' Bloojacket to make my camp their headquarters like
I'd been yearnin' for the chance.
"As you-all must have long ago tracked up on the information, it's
sooperfluous for me to su'gest that a gent gets used to things. Moreover
he gets used frequent to things that he's born with notions ag'inst; an'
them aversions will simmer an' subside ontil he's friendly with folks he
once honed to shoot on sight. It turns out that a-way about me an' this
Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket. What he'ps, no doubt, is they're
capar'soned like folks, with big hats, bloo shirts, trousers,
cow-laiggin's, boots an' spurs, fit an' ready to enter a civilised
parlour at the drop of the handkerchief. Ceasin' to rope for reasons,
however, it's enough to say these savages an' me waxes as thick as
m'lasses. Both of 'em's been eddicated at some Injun school which the
gov'ment--allers buckin' the impossible, the gov'ment is,--upholds in its
vain endeavours to turn red into white an' make folks of a savage.
"Bloojacket is down from the Bad Land country himself not long prior,
bein' he's been servin' his Great Father as one of Gen'ral Crook's scouts
in the Sittin' Bull campaign. This young Bloojacket,--who's bubblin'
over with sperits--has a heap of interestin' stories about the 'Grey
Fox.' It's doo to Bloojacket to say he performs them dooties of his as a
scout like a clean-strain sport, an' quits an' p'ints back for the
paternal camp of Hardrobe in high repoote. Thar's one feat of fast hard
ridin' that Injun performs, which I hears from others, an' which you-all
might not find oninterestin' if I saws it onto you.
"Merritt with three hundred cavalry marches twenty-five miles one
mornin'. Thar's forty Injun scouts along, among 'em this Bloojacket;
said copper-hued auxiliaries bein' onder the command of Gen'ral Stanton,
as game an' good a gent as ever packs a gun. It's at noon; Merritt an'
his outfit camps at the Rawhide Buttes. Thar's a courier from Crook
overtakes 'em. He says that word comes trailin' in that the Cheyennes at
the Red Cloud agency is makin' war medicine an' about to go swarmin' off
to hook up with Sittin' Bull an' Crazy Hoss in the Sioux croosades.
Crook tells Merritt to detach a band of his scouts to go flutterin' over
to Red Cloud an' take a look at the Cheyennes's hand.
"Stanton tells off four of his savages an' lines out with them for the
Red Cloud agency; Bloojacket bein' one. From the Rawhide Buttes to the
Red Cloud agency is one hundred even miles as a bullet travels. What
makes it more impressive, them one hundred miles is across a trailless
country, the same bein' as rocky as Red Dog whiskey an' rough as the life
story of a mule. Which Stanton, Bloojacket an' the others makes her in
twelve hours even, an' comes up, a crust of dust an' sweat, to the Red
Cloud agency at midnight sharp. The Cheyennes has already been gone
eight hours over the Great Northern trail.
"Stanton, who's a big body of a man an' nacherally tharfore some
road-weary, camps down the moment he's free of the stirrups an' writes a
letter on the agency steps by the light of a lantern. He tells Merritt
to push on to the War Bonnet an' he'll head the Cheyennes off. Then he
sends the Red Cloud interpreter an' four local Injuns with lead hosses to
pack this information back to Merritt who's waitin' the word at the
Rawhide Buttes. Bloojacket, for all he's done a hundred miles, declar's
himse'f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way.
"'But you-all won't last through,' says Stanton, where he sets on the
steps, quaffin' whiskey an' reinvig'ratin' himse'f.
"'Which if I don't, I'll turn squaw!' says Bloojacket, an' gettin' fresh
hosses with the others he goes squanderin' off into the midnight.
"Son, them savages, havin' lead hosses, rides in on Merritt by fifth
drink time or say, 'leven o'clock that mornin';--one hundred miles in
'leven hours! An' Bloojacket some wan an' weary for a savage is
a-leadin' up the dance. Mighty fair ridin' that boy Bloojacket does!
Two hundred miles in twenty-three hours over a clost country ain't bad!
Which it's me who says so: an' one time an' another I shore shoves plenty
of scenery onder the hoofs of a cayouse myse'f.
"About the foogitive Cheyennes? Merritt moves up to the War Bonnet like
Stanton su'gests, corrals 'em, kills their ponies an' drives 'em back to
the agency on foot. Thar's nothin' so lets the whey outen a hoss-back
Injun like puttin' him a-foot: an the Cheyennes settles down in sorrow
an' peace immediate.
"While Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket is with me, I'm impressed
partic'lar by the love they b'ars each other. I never does cut the trail
of a father an' son who gives themse'fs up to one another like this
Hardrobe an' his Bloojacket boy. I can see that Bloojacket regyards old
Hardrobe like he's the No'th Star; an' as for Hardrobe himse'f, he can't
keep his eyes off that child of his. You'd have had his life long before
he'd let you touch a braid of Bloojacket's long ha'r. Both of 'em's
plenty handsome for Injuns; tall an' lean an' quick as coyotes, with
hands an' feet as little as a woman's.
"While I don't go pryin' 'round this Hardrobe's private affairs--savages
is mighty sensitive of sech matters--I learns, incidental, that Hardrobe
is fair rich. He's rich even for Osages; an' they're as opulent savages
as ever makes a dance or dons a feather. Later, I finds out that
Hardrobe's squaw--Bloojacket's mother--is dead.
"'See thar?' says Hardrobe one day. We're in the southern border of the
Osage country on the Grayhoss at the time, an' he p'ints to a heap of
stones piled up like a oven an' chimley, an' about four foot high. I
saveys thar's a defunct Osage inside. You-all will behold these little
piles of burial stones on every knoll an' hill in the Osage country.
'See thar,' says this Hardrobe, p'intin'. 'That's my squaw. Mighty good
squaw once; but heap dead now.'
"Then Hardrobe an' Bloojacket rides over an' fixes a little flag they've
got in their war-bags to a pole which sticks up'ards outen this tomb,
flyin' the ensign as Injuns allers does, upside down.
"It's six months later, mebby--an' it's now the hard luck begins--when I
hears how Hardrobe weds a dance-hall girl over to Caldwell. This
maiden's white; an' as beautiful as a flower an' as wicked as a
trant'ler. Hardrobe brings her to his ranch in the Osage country.
"The next tale I gets is that Bloojacket, likewise, becomes a victim to
the p'isenous fascinations of this Caldwell dance-hall damsel, an' that
him an' Hardrobe falls out; Hardrobe goin' on the warpath an' shootin'
Bloojacket up a lot with a Winchester. He don't land the boy at that;
Bloojacket gets away with a shattered arm. Also, the word goes that
Hardrobe is still gunnin' for Bloojacket, the latter havin' gone onder
cover some'ers by virchoo of the injured pinion.
"As Colonel Sterett says, these pore aborigines experiences bad luck the
moment ever they takes to braidin' in their personal destinies with a
paleface. I don't blame 'em none neither. I sees this Caldwell seraph
on one o'casion myse'f; she's shore a beauty! an' whenever she throws the
lariat of her loveliness that a-way at a gent, she's due to fasten.
"It's a month followin' this division of the house of Hardrobe when I
runs up on him in person. I encounters him in one of the little jim-crow
restauraws you-all finds now an' then in the Injun country. Hardrobe an'
me shakes, an' then he camps down ag'in at a table where he's feedin' on
fried antelope an' bakin' powder biscuit.
"I'm standin' at the counter across the room. Jest as I turns my back,
thar's the crack! of a rifle to the r'ar of the j'int, an' Hardrobe
pitches onto the floor as dead as ever transpires in that tribe. In the
back door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an'
onmoved like Injuns allers is, stands Bloojacket.
"'My hand is forced,' he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me!
One of us wore the death-mark an' had to go.'
"'Couldn't you-all have gone with Crook ag'in?' I says. 'Which you don't
have to infest this yere stretch of country. Thar's no hobbles or
sidelines on you; none whatever!'
"Bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an'
inscrootable. I can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of that
Caldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him.
"Bloojacket walks over to where Hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightens
him round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over his
face. Thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyes
of Bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if Hardrobe's a
roll of blankets. But thar's no disrespects neither; jest a great
steadiness. When he has composed him out straight, Bloojacket looks at
the remainder for mebby a minute. Then he shakes his head.
"'He was a great man,' says Bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, with
his good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the Osages.'
"Tharupon Bloojacket wheels on the half-breed who runs the deadfall an'
who's standin' still an' scared, an' says:
"'How much does he owe?' Then he pays Hardrobe's charges for antelope
steaks an' what chuck goes with it, an' at the close of these fiscal
op'rations, remarks to the half-breed--who ain't sayin' no more'n he can
he'p,--'Don't touch belt nor buckle on him; you-all knows me!' An' I can
see that half-breed restauraw party is out to obey Bloojacket's mandates.
"Bloojacket gives himse'f up to the Osages an' is thrown loose on p'role.
But Bloojacket never gets tried.
"A week rides by, an' he's standin' in front of the agency, sort o'
makin' up some views concernin' his destinies. He's all alone; though
forty foot off four Osage bucks is settin' together onder a cottonwood
playin' Injun poker--the table bein' a red blanket spread on the
grass,--for two bits a corner. These yere sports in their blankets an'
feathers, an' rifflin' their greasy deck, ain't sayin' nothin to
Bloojacket an' he ain't sayin' nothin' to them. Which jest the same
these children of nacher don't like the idee of downin' your parent none,
an' it's apparent Bloojacket's already half exiled.
"As he stands thar roominatin,' with the hot August sun beatin' down,
thar's a atmosphere of sadness to go with Bloojacket. But you-all would
have to guess at it; his countenance is as ca'm as on that murderin'
evenin' in the half-breed's restauraw.
"Bloojacket is still thar, an' the sports onder the cottonwood is still
gruntin' joyously over their poker, when thar comes the patter of a
bronco's hoofs. Thar's a small dust cloud, an' then up sweeps the
Caldwell beauty. She comes to a pull-up in front of Bloojacket. That
savage glances up with a inquirin' eye an' the glance is as steady as the
hills about him. The Caldwell beauty--it seems she disdains mournin'--is
robed like a rainbow; an' she an' Bloojacket, him standin', she on her
bronco, looks each other over plenty intent.
"Which five minutes goes by if one goes by, an' thar the two stares into
each other's eyes; an' never a word. The poker bucks keeps on with their
gamble over onder the cottonwood, an' no one looks at the two or seems
like they heeds their existence. The poker savages is onto every move;
but they're troo to the Injun idee of p'liteness an' won't interfere with
even so much as the treemor of a eyelash with other folks's plays.
"Bloojacket an' the Caldwell beauty is still gazin'. At last the
Caldwell beauty's hand goes back, an' slow an' shore, brings to the front
a eight-inch six-shooter. Bloojacket, with his eye still on her an'
never a flicker of feelin', don't speak or move.
"The Caldwell beauty smiles an' shows her white teeth. Then she lays the
gun across her left arm, an' all as solid as a church. Her pony's gone
to sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the Caldwell beauty settles
herse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows is
comin'. The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate as
trees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket
bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.
"'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the Caldwell beauty, as
she runs her eye along the sights. 'I must aim low or I'll shore make
ragged work.'
"Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a
stachoo. Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the
aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot. The Caldwell beauty
keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up
the brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an'
thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your
finger-tip. Which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the poker
bucks plays ca'mly on."
My venerable friend came to a full stop. After a respectful pause, I
ventured an inquiry.
"And the Caldwell beauty?" I said.
"It ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that Caldwell hurdygurdy
where she ropes up Hardrobe first. Her laugh is as loud an' as' free,
her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twenty
quadrilles in a evenin' from 'Bow-to-your-partners' to
'All-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them Osage
tragedies you shore can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an'
paint."