the front. "I don't believe I quite follow you, Pete. Surely, you Surely, you don't brand women out here as well as cattle?"

Pete frowned. "Hell, no!" in deep disgust. "Say, you're some tenderfoot, ain't you? Out here in the cow business we call an unbranded critter a maverick. Between ourselves, Squint an' me calls this half-breed gal 'the Maverick,' 'cause nobody ain't got his brand on her yet, give her his name -married her-see? An' Squint's that anxious to make it his brand he can't eat his grub."

He pulled a large, nickeled watch from his vest, and consulted it.

"I got to hurry. Squint's went uptown somewhere with the Maverick, an' like as not he's waitin' for me. The blamed cuss's got some temper, too, an' I don't like to git him riled. To cut it short, the Maverick she took a trip up to Sheridan one time, an' she seen some swells at a hotel with dress suits an' plug hats on. An' she got it in her fool head that when she got married the lucky man would have to wear a dress suit an' a plug hat, or there wouldn't be no weddin'. When she sprung that on Squint he 'most dropped dead. What fools women is, ain't they?"

I got out my keys and began to throw back the catches of one of the trunks.

"Squint balked at the dress suit," continued Pete. "He finally compromised on a plug hat. O' course, nobody can't buy them things in a self-respectin' community like this, so we had to send outside for one. The Maverick she seen 'em advertised in an old catalog. Squint, havin' lived with cattle all his life an' not knowin' much o' the ways o' the world, had the Maverick write the letter for him-she could jest get away with it-an' I got the money order myself. They fixed up the weddin' to come off to-day. But till I seen that label on your trunks, I was afraid it was all off.”

I looked at him inquiringly. "Somethin' must have gone wrong with the mails, 'cause the hat ain't ar

rived yet.
She wouldn't marry the
King o' Spain without a plug hat, an'
I'll gamble on it."

"Well, you've saved Squint's happiness," I said, "for here's the hat.'

He held it between two fingers and examined it with elevated nose. However, he paid what I asked without a murmur, and walked away toward the street, the hat wrapped in a newspaper.

I locked the trunk. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was still a considerable wait till train-time, so I left the depot and sauntered up the straggling, sparsely-built street which formed the main artery of traffic in this little Wyoming town.

I had not gone far when I saw a stoutish, red-faced, cowpuncher-looking fellow dive across the street, wildly waving what looked like a letter, and plant himself in front of Pete.

"Damn you, Pete!" he shouted. "You will steal my money, will you? I don't know what you wanted with the money, but I bet you wanted to keep me from gettin' that hat, jest to queer me with the Maverick!"

I had caught up with them, and stood watching. I saw a blank look come into Pete's face.

"You're crazy, Squint," he said to the other. "No man ever had a better friend than I have been to you. What you talkin' about, anyway?"

The red-faced man jabbed the letter at Pete. "You read that!" he bellowed. "You read that! I had the postmaster read it to me."

Pete examined the letter minutely. Then he read it aloud, his voice and manner indicating growing amaze

ment.

"'Dear Sir: We beg to apologize for the delay in acknowledgin' receipt o' your valued order. We have not shipped the hat, as we received no remittance for same. It bein' a rule with us to require remittance with order, we must ask you to kindly forward the requisite amount, when the hat will go to you immediately. Very truly yours, Dash, Paymont & Co.'"

Pete handed back the letter. "Now

see here, Squint, if they didn't git that money, it's no fault o' mine. I got the money order, all right, didn't I? An' the Maverick she wrote the letter, an'

"You jest leave the Maverick out o' this!" roared Squint. He seemed about to choke. "The postmaster says you never paid him no money at all. I s'pose you forged that receipt. The hat didn't come, an' she won't marry me without it. I wouldn't 'a' believed it before, but 1 know now you wanted that gal yourself, an' you shan't have no chance at her! I'm goin' to fix you." The man had worked himself into a frenzy. He ran back a few feet, whipped out a forty-four and fired. Weak and sick, I tore for the nearest doorway. When I peered round its protecting corner, I noted that the street was clear, except for the two men.

Squint had run out into the middle of the street. The sunlight glinted brightly from the muzzle of his sixshooter as he raised it and fired again. Pete stood just as he had stood at first. One hand held the newspaper-wrapped bundle, the other hung limp at his side. He seemed paralyzed with astonishment. Squint's nerves must have been badly shaken by his emotion, or he would have dropped the other dead in his tracks.

The third shot, however, punched a black hole through the top of Pete's hat. At that, he came to. Dropping the bundle, his hand dropped to the gun at his belt. Before Squint, his passion-blotched face working horribly, could fire again, a puff of smoke came from Pete's waist line. Squint threw up his hands and staggered. A second later he dropped and lay quiet in the sun-parched dust of the street. Pete stood perfectly still for perhaps half a minute. Then, with a wild shout he flung the revolver from him and ran to Squint's side. Kneeiing by the prostrate man, he felt him over. I could see part of his face as he knelt there. It was set and hard. But it shone in the sun as though greased, and I knew that the perspiration was pouring from him.

59

As in a dream, I saw Pete rise to his feet. He stood looking down at the crumpled form, at the little crimson stream oozing from the round hole in the forehead, and he shook his head, sadly.

"This is hell! This is hell!" he kept saying over and over. "I jest had to pertect myself. I didn't go fer to put him 'way out, but he's sure out."

He continued to stare down at the figure, gloomily, while from all directions men were approaching on the

run.

"What could 'a' got into him, sayin' I stole that money!" He was still thinking aloud. "What could 'a' got into him!"

He was silent, while some of the men picked up the mound that had been Squint, and moved off up the street with it. To my surprise, no one attempted to question Pete as to the cause of the shooting, although there was plenty of discussion. Everybody seemed to accept the tragedy as a matter of little consequence.

Pete joined me on the sidewalk. We watched the retreating group of men carry their burden far up the street to a building in which the morgue was situated.

Then, head whirling, I looked at my watch and started for the depot. Pete caught up with me, carrying the bundle. Presently he spoke.

"Son, I'm plumb flabbergasted! That's what I am-plumb flabbergasted! Either Squint was crazy, or else I am!"

Following the example of the crowd in the street, I held my peace. He

I

T WAS the year of the big boom, the very day the logs came down. The Gualala was running bankfull. It had flooded the flats above and broken the bar below. The last three weeks of steady rain had filled all the mountain streams and brought the logs down to the basin of the river, where they rode as safely as if anchored; guarded by the logs, chains and dogs of the big boom.

The mill company had taken every precaution that seemed necessary to save and hold their logs. But Al. Winters, the ferry-man, had another interest. To protect his ferry he had stretched another boom across the river one hundred feet below the lower mill-boom, and fifty feet above his ferry landing. This, he thought, would insure safety in case a sudden rise in the river should float off some of the top logs, or a swifter undercurrent draw the heavier sinkers into the waters below. These, as well as smaller logs, endangered his frail craft as it carried teams or foot passengers across the now swiftly running river. Glad, indeed, was he to have it completed by stage time.

Hindered by muddy roads and swollen streams, two hours late came Coyote Jim down the grade to take the ferry. He was in his maddest, most exuberant mood.

You never met Coyote Jim? Of all the blood-curdling sounds ever heard by mortal ears, that of the Mendocino County coyote is the wildest. It is a yelp, a scream, a howl, a bark, a screech together, that, once heard, would never be forgotten. Coyote Jim had driven the stage from Russian

River to Point Arena for many years, and oftener than he could count, had met the redoubtable coyote. Singly or in bands, running or slinking, sometimes noisy, sometimes quiet, but, as Jim says, "always talkative," the coyote was on hand.

Jim learned to talk to them, and in his lonely drives along the coast he amused himself by imitating their cry, thus calling them to him. If they came too close to be comfortable, he would bark like a dog or open fire on them and drive them away. Another amusement was to announce his coming at each station on the line by a series of coyote cries. The style of the cry, the hemi-demi-semi-quavers and short

rests; or the long-drawn yelps and whole-dotted note screams, usually informed the waiting postmaster of Jimmy's mood before he saw his face. Jimmy was well named.

To-day, one grievance after another had exhausted Jimmy's usually large stock of patience; and as darkness threatened to overtake him before he reached the end of his journey, he was anxious for all Gualala, as well as Al. Winters, to know that he must cross that ferry in double-quick time. Here he came, driving like a veritable Jehu, and filling all the spare space in the atmosphere with his "yappity yoppity yah, you, yow, yup, up, up yo-o-o-owow-00-00-00-ee-i-yi, yi, yo, yoye-oo-oo-i-e-i," repeated again and again, until the people of the entire town were well aware of his coming, and Al. Winters was swearing his way across the river to meet him, for no matter how other men or animals regarded Jimmy's favorite amusement,

to Al. Winters it was the most exquisite torture.

Nor did he hide his aversion. Again and again was he heard to wish that another driver might take Jimmy's place. But Jimmy was satisfactory to the firm, and besides, he owned a share in the business himself.

"I'll choke you yet," was a common promise, but Jimmy's answer: "Ha! Ha! Not you!" showed there was no fear in his heart. When Frank, Winter's helper, warned him, his reply was: "Winter hurt me? No; he's too good to his dog." And he whistled

away.

One busy day Winters was heard to say: "If it was not that he carried the mail, I would gladly see him and his yelp, stage and all, at the bottom of the river."

This was reported to Jimmy, who lost no opportunity of teasing Winters. The river men and millmen were in the secret, and lost no chance of twitting Al. for his lack of musical taste.

Six horses instead of the usual four, and a heavily loaded nine-seater instead of the little six-seated wagon, was what Jimmy drove on the ferry as soon as Al. gave the word: "All set."

Wells Fargo's agent and a special guard in civilian's dress sat on the outside seat beside him. Two passengers kept company on the middle seat inside, and everywhere they could be packed or tucked or stowed away were boxes, bags, trunks, valises, grips and bundles. These were the delayed baggage and freight that had been waiting for the nine-seater to come up. Not a word did Winters or his helper say to Jimmy. The former knew that his business was to get that ferry, load and. all, across to the other side with all possible speed.

Jimmy was too busy handling his restless horses to tease Winters. Welltrained and obedient as stage horses usually are, and Jimmy's team was no exception to this rule, the high water and the choppy waves dancing around the frail ferry boat, shaking it so continuously, were more than they could stand. They became restless and ner

vous, and jerked stubbornly on the bits. One of the leaders began to rear and plunge. The others caught fright, and the cranky flat ferry rocked. Fearing they might jerk the stage off the boat, the traces were unhooked, and Jimmy wound the lines around each wrist. To get a better pull on them he stood upon the mail bags in the boat. He was a little man, not over one hundred and twenty pounds at his best. Slender and wiry, he had more grit and go in his little body than many a man twice his size.

The unusual weight and swift current were all the boat could bear. When they were hardly one-fourth of the way over, two large logs came careering and heading straight across the ferry's path. To slacken headway was impossible; to hurry equally No one saw them but Winters; no one knew so well as he the danger of a collision. The smaller log struck the ferry boat fair on the bow and slid under. Before the frail ferry could recover from the shock, shock, the larger log struck her midway, and the boat tilted violently.

So.

The unusual strain on the wire rope dragged on the land poles, loosened by the rain, and they sagged dangerously.

"Grab an oar, Frank," shouted Winters. But he was too late. With a loud splash, the lower pole fell into the river. The lead-wire dropped. The ferry sharply swung around, and headed down stream toward the ocean. Having no stays against a pull on the other wire, the other pole followed suit, carrying the broken wire with it. The ferry, now free from all holdings, drifted toward the current of the river. Winters blew his distress whistle, but friendly hands were ahead of him. The brave rivermen were already to his rescue. The stage stood a foot deep in water and was sinking deeper. Winters began to scull, and called to Neal, the express agent, to take another oar, hoping to ground the boat on a spit of sand-bar that jutted out. into the river about fifty feet ahead of them, before she reached the turn that would bring her into the deep water,