buck's no more good for the pale face twins, I reckon.'

"Maybe so,' says Ray, 'but he'll do to experiment on with them Nile rules of ours, an' that's something.' I see by this outbreak that my partner is still dealin' geographical figgers of speech, so I saws wood accordin'ly.

"About three hours nearer dinner time that same red man that has his heart set

"Then he rips another moccasin with a grunt that causes the ponies to shift to the other foot; and again that noble red fades from sight with the sinuous. alacrity of a lizard. Them's not my words, exactly. Part of 'em's Ray's, maybe more than part of 'em.

"The sun is straight up when I see that Indian headin' for us again. I'm feelin' the narrowness of the meets and bounds

"G-o-o-d man,' he unravels from somewhere about his face, maybe from his feet-it sounds like that. Then he

THADDEUS LINCOLN PLANCK

sheds what they call a grin on that reservation, but which makes his mouth look like a sliced watermelon. He is not fair to look upon, you can pin to that.

"G-o-o-d man, buy m' horses,' he blurts out this time, and for fear he'll do it again, or maybe worse, I up and offers him $50; and I bites off my words so that they sound like crackin' ice.

this time, for I begin to humor myself into believin' that plain English is wasted on this mercenary Arapahoe. I'm thinkin' up a mild phrase or two in choice italics when the red one heaves to. His grin has spread across his face by this time until the man in the moon's a poor counterfeit-it goes clear past his mouth-its

""We don't want your horses!' says Ray. He shoots this at the Arapahoe like's if he has fifteen or twenty-three more, and every one swifter, yet in his magazine. That holds the Indian for at spell, but he isn't nervous any to notice, and pretty soon he rounds up with a still wider gash in his face he thinks he's lookin' pleasant.

""This is becomin' tragic,' says I, for private circulation only. 'We'll have to'

"If you want $60 all right, but if you don't, why, get away and stay away,' says Ray, and it goes. The Arapahoe is wise to this, and cinches; then I breathe some easier, feelin' light-hearted again. I don't want to kill that Indian, but I'll have to admit that he makes a very narrow escape.

"In such manner we get together a herd of one hundred and fourteen wild horses and heads 'em for Caspar. We also pick up a couple of rope-throwers and take two or three wild horses in hand for work on the way back. One of these fresh mounts is a picture mare. She is that pretty that she seems to know it, and is gay likewise.

"Of course these horses raise some dust in the desert, and we enjoy it very little more than we did the first time over. But we push on to the other side, into the foothills only twenty miles from Casper in five days. It's a pleasant evening and we're bone tired. We get the ponies rounded well under the lee of a bluff and we're ready to take a nap as soon as the herd begins to go to the ground.

"Ray is up on the beauty. He's holdin' her out these last two days. Over in the desert she gets away and it costs him $5 to get an Indian to put a rope on her. He makes a poor play there. She's better dead at double the money, but we don't know that yet, like many other things we can't figure out till afterward. Well, as I says, Ray's got the beauty under him, and he has her pretty tame as far as we can see. She's quit tryin' to buck and acts some like as if she's goin' to get used to white men and maybe learn to like it.

He

"By this time it's dark. Only we two are horseback-the hired hands are sound asleep. Of a sudden, Ray asks me for a match, sayin' he's found a cigar unexpectedly. I gives him a match and he throws his leg over his saddle horn and goes on to light the weed. reaches down on the saddle and scratches the match, and then he sets down good and hard on the ground, and that mare is gone like's if she has wings. She takes just time enough on the way to stampede the herd, and while Ray's countin' the stars he sees when he lights onto the hard ground, I'm away after the stampede.

"The bunch has a good long lead at that, and only for the bell mare an' a white horse that's lame an' can't keep up with the swift ones, I'm likely to lose sight of them. But I keep a goin' and towards morning I've got them milled good and tired. Then I begin to won

der where I am. Naturally, I feels for my compass, an' just as naturally I remember givin' it to Ray before sundown.

"I haven't got as much as a chew of tobacker. No biscuit, no water-no nuthin' but a little bit of revivin' nerve, and blamed little of that, I'm tellin' you. I'm back into that desert-don't know where or how deep, and I'm stampeded the worst sort of way.

"After givin' myself the raw edge of a private hearin', I says to myself, friendly like 'Oh, well, fools will be fools. I guess I'll peep at the time, and then rest a while.' Now right then I arrive somewhere, and I learns by this that it doesn't add any to a man's get there qualities to talk back to himself. Good humor's the thing. As soon as I looks at my watch I get an idea, and like a hard up, sensible fellow might do, I work it for all it's worth to me.

"Says I, 'If I've been ridin' only six hours I've only gone as far as a horse can run in that time; an' if I keep an eye out for the full moon, I'll size up the points of the compass sure as figures is arithmetic.' I don't lose any time smoothin' off a dial plat, and when that moon shows up I fix north on my plat so it stays. Then I takes me a nap or two an' by daylight I'm moving fiftyseven of the herd of one hundred and fourteen back toward the foothills and Caspar. I make an even break, lone handed, which ain't so bad after all.

"I'm till five o'clock that p. m. drivin' them horses, all alone, nothing to eat, drink or chew. When I get that bunch to Caspar I'm as blue-lipped as a poisoned pup, and for days after I'm spittin' sand and salt water. I make some money on them ponies, after payin' Indians to go after the runaways back to Washakie, but I've had mine for desert roamin'.

"But I don't much more than get my profits on them Wyoming ponies tucked

away when along comes a letter from my friend Bill Collard of Phoenix, Arizona, who says there's mules out there nearly for the ropin', and hintin' that he's lonesome to see me. Pretty soon I draws up to Bill's supper table and we talk it over. Next day we go for the mules, an' it's like he says, they're to be had, and we get busy.

"We're working on the third car, if I'm not mistaken, and we're pretty well fagged out, when Bill says we'll just rest up a bit. We're on our way back to Phoenix, buckboardin' along at a decent clip for mules, when we run into a herd of sheep that reaches out all over the country. Bill is wise to the lay at once. Says he :

""Thad, what d'ye say to havin' some fresh lamb for supper?'

"I'm thinkin' well of lamb and I says so. I don't bother about it any, for Bill Collard's been Sheriff of Phoenix an' I figure that he knows what he's doin'.

"If you'll just take the trouble to guide these mules a spell,' says he, 'I'll sort o' tangle one of them lambs up with this rope.' He looks all around for the sheep-herd. There bein' nobody but us on lay, so far as we see, he makes good his remarks and in less'n half of no time he has a young sheep along side an' is takin' off the rope. I'm busy holdin' the lines and Bill's busy unropin' the sheep, when all of a sudden a big Mexican gets busier'n both of us-wanting to know things.

"That Mexican is about seven feet tall, an' he has two guns that look big enough to shoot without any help. Where he comes from in such a hurry we never can guess, an' we haven't any time to try. I'm never worse scared an' Bill's none too happy, as I can see by his lack of greetin' that hostile greaser with a bluff. Bill Collard's none of your shy ones but he knows when it's manners to parley. That Mexican says something

that sounds bad to me and I can tell by the way Bill don't answer in a hurry that he knows what the sheep-herd's saying, but he's not in any rush to savy. Then I gets an idea-scared into it, I guess. I fishes a silver dollar out of my pocket. an' tosses it over to Bill, sayin' the best I can an' keep my teeth from chatterin':

"You win; there's your dollar! I'm foolish to think you can't rope one every time.'

"Bill's wise before the dollar quits. ringin' on the ground. Then he lets the sheep loose, picks up my dollar, turns to Mr. Mexican an' he's Sheriff again. 'What's that you're saying?' says he, snapping out the words.

"That Mexican is still fingerin' them guns, but he's not so boisterous now. I don't know what he's sayin, but I can tell that he's explainin', for pretty soon he's usin' his hands; an' just as soon as he gets his hands away from them guns I know we'll both get back to Phoenix. When Bill tells him we have a little bet whether he can rope a sheep the first time, and he wins, that greaser dusts the trail, makin' bows to go with his apology. He don't want any trouble with real sportsmen, he tells Bill, and I'm only too glad he ain't a mind reader, 'cause I'm all in an' warped; an' I ain't never had no appetite for mutton since.

"That's about as near as shooting comes and don't pop, I reckon,' I says to Bill, when I gets my nerves settled a bit.

"Bill says nothin' for a spell, then he remarks, takin' my silver dollar out of his pocket: This is the biggest dollar I ever see, Thad. When that Mexican is toyin' with them howitzers of his'n, an' you throw this shiner on the ground, it looks bigger'n the moon through a spy-glass. I know that sheep killin' thief an' he knows me. I has him in jail once, an' he stands ready to kill me for it. I may have to kill him yet, in self-defense.

"Next time he meets me,' says I, 'he'll know it. Me to the sod land, William, I'm not happy here.'

"So!' said Bill, like's if what I say is all unusual.

"Yes, he may get the drop on me. again,' says Bill more serious, 'an' the same dollar bet won't work.'

"Then make it two dollars,' says I, 'but your friend Thaddeus Lincoln is

not in it. I'm horse and mule chaser, mountain climber and desert duster all right, but no man hunting in mine if you please. Me to the Scioto, Bill. Them mules needs Eastern air.'

"I reckon you're set on bein' civilized,' remarks Bill as he says good-bye at the train. 'Well,' says he, an' sighs like, 'take good care of the mules, Thad, and don't forget that little job o' ropin." "

S

HE looked very frail and pitiful

as she lay there in the big bed, the faintest color tinging her cheeks, her hair streaming over the pillows in rich profusion; she was something it pained one to see, like an injured bird or torn flower. All winter and spring had she lain ill, with now and then a faint show of vitality which served to buoy up false hopes, but day by day growing steadily weaker. last the end was near, she was passing swiftly, passing out into the great unknown, and she knew it not.

At

It was late in July. The warm sun filtered through the drawn blinds in a yellow glow, and made more ghastly the poor wan features. The sounds of the city, diminished by distance, were heard faintly in the room,-bells tink

ling musically, the rumble of a distant carriage, the merry shouts of children at play. Outside the window a bee hummed inquiringly to know were it well to enter; on second thought he buzzed noisily into the room, and set to work industriously on a vase of flowers standing near the bedside.

The world was full of life and joy on that hot July afternoon; "it was good to be here"-or at least it seemed so, and to her who was the prey of death, life seem good and sweet and very precious indeed.

She must have been asleep a long while, for she awoke refreshed; it seemed ages since she had been awake before, and she felt as though a load had been lifted from her. She lay there idly dreaming, a thousand fancies flit

ting through her brain, with a delicious. feeling of peace and well-being. But it was hard for her to fix her thoughts, she could not remember very well where she was or how she came there.

Ah, yes! of course she recollected all now-it came to her in a flash. She had been sick, very sick indeed! And so long! She thought for a while she was never going to get better. Those awful nights, oh, the torture of them!-when she coughed and coughed, hour after hour a ceaseless, racking cough, until her lungs seemed torn asunder, and every part of her body felt as one great wound. How she had longed for the morning, how endless the weary hours of darkness used to seem! Then she would have given all she ever saw for even one hour's good sleep, but it was denied her. Oh, it was cruel, cruel! What had she ever done to be treated like this? And then, embittered with agony, she would give way to paroxysms of anger against herself, against those worn out waiting on her.

She was sorry, of course, now for having been so angry; in fact, she could. scarcely understand it, she felt so gentle and self-satisfied to-day. It was not really herself who said those cruel, bitter things, but a poor little mite tortured with life-weariness and deathfear, who was not really responsible. But now all that was over, the suffering and pain were gone, the awful cough had disappeared, charmed away no doubt by summer suns and July breezes, and now all she had to do was to regain her strength, and make up to her dear ones for all the trouble given them. Yes, thank God, she had passed the crisis safely, she was going to live and be herself again. God was good; He had been very good to her indeed.

But now here was a strange thingshe puzzled for a long while over that, and could make nothing out of it-the priest seemed very grave these last few days, when all danger evidently was

past. He insisted on giving her the last sacraments, but then he always believed in being on the safe side of things. And then he told her a lot of things about Heaven, how there our real existence begins, that life is a mere daydream, which lasts a few minutes and is gone. Heaven lasts forever, and in Heaven there is no pain or sin; no misunderstandings; no tears or partings, or sad good-byes; all are united forever, and in Heaven we know our own. Our faculties, too, far from being impaired, are strengthened and made more perfect.

Does not earth, with its hundred thousand things of interest and mystery, form an inexhaustible object of knowledgeinfinitely more than men have hitherto been able to make their own of? Yet earth is not even a speck of dust compared to Heaven, where God dwells in light inaccessible, and communicates to each creature as much light and knowledge and happiness as it has the power of receiving.

These things, and many more she could not remember, he told her about Heaven, and then finished with: "Little girl, you will reach Heaven before me, and mind, don't forget me when you have got your crown." She laughed then, she smiled incredulously now. It was really foolish to think an elderly. man would outlive her. What a surprise he would get on seeing her one of these Sundays at Mass, all radiant with renewed health and vigor! Then she began to ask herself what she would wear her first Sunday out. Would it be well for her to go into the country for a few weeks? Would she be well enough to put in an appearance at a long-talkedof party? Such children are we, so utterly are our fancies beyond control, that at the most solemn moments trifles besiege us, and the holiest and the most. frivolous ideas course almost simultaneously through our busy brains.

As her thoughts wandered thus idly, a door opened softly somewhere, a whis