"'I don't put it up I'll leave for a long time,' says Jack.'Mebby not for a month--mebby it's even years before I go wanderin' off--so don't go to makin' no friendly, quiet waits for me nowhere along the route, Pickles, 'cause you'd most likely run out of water or chuck or something before ever I trails up.'
"It ain't long when Pickles saddles up an' comes chargin' 'round on his little buckskin hoss.Pickles takes to cuttin' all manner of tricks, reachin' for things on the ground, snatchin' off Mexicans'
hats, an' jumpin' his pony over wagon tongues an' camp fixin's.All the time he's whoopin' an' yellin' an' carryin' on, an havin' a high time all by himse'f.Which you can see he's gettin' up his blood an'
nerve, reg'lar Injun fashion.
"Next he takes down his rope an' goes to whirlin' that.Two or three times he comes flashin' by where we be, an' I looks to see him make a try at Jack.But he's too far back, or thar's too many 'round Jack, or Pickles can't get the distance, or something; for he don't throw it none, but jest keeps yellin' an' ridin' louder an' faster.
Pickles shorely puts up a heap of riot that a-way! It's now that Enright calls to Pickles.
"'Look yere, Pickles,' he says, 'I've passed the word to the five best guns in camp to curl you up if you pitch that rope once.Bein'
as the news concerns you, personal, I allows it's nothin' more'n friendly to tell you.Then ag'in, I don't like to lose the Red Light sech a customer like you till it's a plumb case of crowd.'
"When Enright vouchsafes this warnin', Pickles swings down an'
leaves his pony standin', an' comes over.
"'Do you know, Jack,' he says, 'I don't like the onrespectful tones wherein you talks of Injuns.I'm Injun, part, myse'f, an' I don't like it.'
"'No?' says Jack; 'I s'pose that's a fact, too.An' yet, Pickles, not intendin' nothin' personal, for I wouldn't be personal with a prairie dog, I'm not only onrespectful of Injuns, an' thinks the gov'ment ought to pay a bounty for their skelps, but I states beliefs that a hoss-stealin', skulkin' mongrel of a half-breed is lower yet; I holdin' he ain't even people--ain't nothin', in fact.
But to change the subjeck, as well as open an avenoo for another round of drinks, I'll gamble, Pickles, that you-all stole that hoss down thar, an' that the "7K" brand on his shoulder ain't no brand at all, but picked on with the p'int of a knife.'
"When Jack puts it all over Pickles that a-way, we looks for shootin' shore.But Pickles can't steady himse'f on the call.He's like ponies I've met.He'll ride right at a thing as though he's goin' plumb through or over, an' at the last second he quits an'
flinches an' weakens.Son, it ain't Pickles' fault.Thar ain't no breed of gent but the pure white who can play a desp'rate deal down through, an' call the turn for life or death at the close; an'
Pickles, that a-way, is only half white.So he laughs sort o' ugly at Jack's bluff, an' allows he orders drinks without no wagers.
"'An' then, Jack,' he says, 'I wants you to come feed with me.I'll have Missis Rucker burn us up something right.'
"'I'll go you,' says Jack, 'if it ain't nothin' but salt hoss.'
"'I'll fix you-all folks up a feed,' says Missis Rucker, a heap grim, 'but you don't do no banquetin' in no dinin' room of mine.
I'll spread your grub in the camp-house, t'other side the corral, an' you-all can then be as sociable an' smoky as you please.Which you'll be alone over thar, an' can conduct the reepast in any fashion to suit yourse'fs.But you don't get into the dinin' room reg'lar, an' go to weedin' out my boarders accidental, with them feuds of yours.'
"After a little, their grub's got ready in the camp house.It's a jo-darter of a feed, with cake, pie, airtights, an' the full game, an' Jack an' Pickles walks over side an' side.They goes in alone an' shets the door.In about five minutes, thar's some emphatic remarks by two six-shooters, an' we-all goes chargin' to find out.
We discovers Jack eatin' away all right; Pickles is the other side, with his head in his tin plate, his intellects runnin' out over his eye.Jack's shore subdooed that savage for all time.
"'It don't look like Pickles is hungry none,' says Jack.
"They both pulls their weepons as they sets down, an' puts 'em in their laps; but bein' bred across, that a-way, Pickles can't stand the strain.He gets nervous an' grabs for his gun; the muzzle catches onder the table-top, an' thar's his bullet all safe in the wood.Jack, bein' clean strain American, has better luck, an'
Pickles is got.Shore, it's right an' on the squar'!
"'You sees,' says Dan Boggs, 'this killin's bound to be right from the jump.It comes off by Pickles' earnest desire; Jack couldn't refoose.He would have lost both skelp an' standin' if he had.
Which, however, if this yere 'limination of Pickles has got to have a name, my idee is to call her a case of self-deestruction on Pickles' part, an' let it go at that.'"
