"But how about yourself?" I asked."Do you, like Hall and Boggs, believe that Heaven especially interferes with the plans of man; or that a challenge, direct or otherwise, to the Powers Above, is liable to earn reply?""I states ag'in," he retorted, puffing a calmative cloud the while, "I states ag'in: Thar's no sooperstition ridin' the ranges of my breast.Yet I sees enough in a long an' more or less eventful life--not to say an ill-employed life--to know that Providence packs a gun; an', as more than one scoffer finds out, she don't go heeled for fun.Thar's that Gene Watkins, who gets killed by lightnin' over by the Eagle Claw that time; downed for blasphemin', he is.""Let me hear about this Watkins," I urged; "no one is more interested in the doings of Providence than I.""Which from what little I notes of you," he observed, regarding me with a glance of dubious, sour suspicion, "you-all shore ought to be.An' I'll tell you one thing: If Providence ever gets wearied of the way you acts--an' it ain't none onlikely--you might as well set in your chips an' quit.
"But as to this yere Watkins: I don't know about the wisdom of burdenin' you with Watkins.It's gettin' plenty late, an' I'm some fatigued myse'f; I must be organizin' to bed myse'f down a lot for the night.I ain't so cap'ble of sleeplessness as I am 'way back yonder in the years when I'm workin' cattle along the old Jones an'
Plummer trail.However, it won't take long, this Watkins killin';an' seein' my moods is in the saddle that a-way, I may as well let you have it.This yere ain't a story exackly; it's more like a aneckdote; but it allers strikes me as sheddin' a ray on them speshul Providences.
"This Watkins is a mere yooth; he jumps into Wolfville from the Texas Panhandle, where, it's rumored, he's been over free with a gun.However, that don't bother us a bit.Arizona conducts herse'f on the principle of everybody ridin' his own sign-camps, an' she ain't roundin' up escaped felons for no commoonity but herse'f.
"The first time I sees this Watkins party is one evenin' when he sa'nters down the middle aisle of the Bird Cage Op'ry House, with his lariat in his hands, an' tosses the loop over a lady who's jest then renderin' that good old hymn:
"In the days of old, the days of gold, The days of forty-nine!
"It's mighty discouragin', this Watkins breakin' in on them melodies.It's more than discouragin', it's scand'lous.The loop is a bit big, an' falls cl'ar down an' fastens to this cantatrice by the fetlocks.An' then this locoed Watkins turns loose to pull her over the footlights.Which the worst is, havin' her by the heels, an' she settin' down that a-way, he pulls that lady over the footlights the wrong way.
"It's at this epock, Jack Moore, who in his capac'ty of marshal is domineerin' about down in front, whacks Watkins over the head with his six-shooter, an' the lady's saved.
"'What be you-all tryin' to do with this diva?' demands Moore of the Watkins party.
"'Which I'm enamored of her,' says this yere Watkins, 'an' thar's a heap of things I was aimin' to pour into her years.But now you've done pounded me on top with that gun, they all gets jolted out of my mind.'
"'Jest the same,' says Moore, 'if I was you, I'd take the saddle off my emotions, an' hobble 'em out to rest some.Meanwhile I'd think up a new system.You-all lacks reticence; also you're a heap too much disposed to keep yourse'f in the public eye.I don't know how it is in Texas, but yere in Arizona a gent who gets too cel'brated gets shot.Also, I might add in concloosion that your Panhandle notions of a good way to get confidenshul with a lady don't obtain none yere--they don't go.An' so I warns you, never express your feelin's with a lariat in this theayter no more.Wolfville yields leeniency to ign'rance once, but never ag'in.'
"But, as I'm sayin'; about this Watkins over on the Eagle Claw:
Thar's a half-dozen of us--a floatin' outfit we be, ridin' the range, pickin' up what calves misses the spring brandin'--an' we're bringin' along mebby three hundred cows an' half-grown calves, an'
headin' for the bar-B-eight--that's Enright's brand--corral to mark the calves.It's late in August, jest at the beginnin' of the rains.
Thar's a storm, an' everybody's in the saddle, plumb down to the cook, tryin' to hold the bunch.It's flash on flash of lightnin';an' thunder followin' on the heels of thunder-clap.As we-all is cirklin' the little herd, an' singin' to 'em to restore their reason with sounds they saveys, thar comes a most inord'nate flash of lightnin', an' a crash of thunder like a mountain fallin'; it sort o' stands us up on our hocks.It makes the pore cattle bat their eyes, an' almost knocks their horns off.
"Thar's a moment of silence followin'; an' then this yere ontamed Watkins, tossin' his hand at the sky, shouts out:
"'Blaze away! my gray-head creator! You-all has been shootin' at me for twenty years; you ain't hit me yet!'
"Watkins is close to Boggs when he cuts loose this yere defiance;an' it simply scares Boggs cold! He's afraid he'll get picked off along with Watkins.Boggs, in his frenzy, pulls his six-shooter, an'
goes to dictatin' with it towards Watkins.
"'Pull your freight,' roars Boggs; 'don't you stay near me none.
Get, or I'll give you every load in the gun.'
"This Watkins person spurs his cayouse away; at the same time he's laughin' at Boggs, deemin' his terrors that a-way as reedic'lous.As he does, a streak of white fire comes down, straight as a blazin'
arrer, an' with it sech a whirl of thunder, which I thought the earth had split! An' it shorely runs the devil's brand on Watkins.
"When we recovers, thar he lies; dead--an' his pony dead with him.
An' he must have got the limit; for, son, the very rowels of his spurs is melted.Right in the middle of his leather hat-band, where it covers his fore'ead, thar's burned a hole about the size of a 44-calibre bullet; that's where the bolt goes in.I remembers, as we gathers 'round, how Boggs picks up the hat.It's stopped rainin' of a sudden, an' the stars is showin' two or three, where the clouds is partin' away.Boggs stands thar lookin' first at the sky, an' then at the hat where the hole is.Then he shakes his head.'She's a long shot, but a center one,' says Boggs."
