"This last I knows, for the next day I sees the medicine men givin' some sufferer one of their aboriginal steam baths. They're on the bank of Bird River. They've bent down three or four small saplin's for the framework of a tent like, an' thar's piled on 'em blankets an' robes a foot deep so she's plumb airtight. Thar's a fire goin' an' they're heatin' rocks, same as Colonel Sterett tells about when they baptises his grandfather into the church. When the rocks is red-hot they takes 'em, one by one, an' drops 'em into a bucket of water to make her steam. Then they shoves this impromptoo cauldron inside the little robe house where as I'm aware—for I onderstands the signs from the start—thar's a sick buck quiled up awaitin' relief. This yere invalid buck stays in thar twenty minutes. The water boils an' bubbles an' the steam gets that abundant not to say urgent she half lifts the robes an' blankets at the aiges to escape. The ailin' buck in the sweat tent stays ontil he can't stay no more, an' then with a yowl, he comes burstin' forth, a reek of sweat an' goes splashin' into the coolin' waters of Bird River. It's the Six-killer; that weddin' feast comes mighty near to downin' him—gives him a 'bad heart,' an' he ondergoes the steam bath for relief.
"But we're strayed from that weddin'. Bein' now re-arrayed in fullest feather the Saucy Willow is fetched into the ring an' receives a platter with the rest. Then one of the bucks, lookin' about like he's amazed, says: 'Wherever is the Jack Rabbit?' that bein' Bill's Osage title. Crooked Claw shakes his head an' reckons most likely the Jack Rabbit's rummagin' about loose some'ers, not knowin' enough to come in an' eat. A brace of bucks an' a young squaw starts up an' figgers they'll search about an' see if they can't round him up. They goes out an' thar's Bill settin' off on a rock a quarter of a mile with his back to the camp an' the footure.
"The two sharps an' the squaw herds Bill into camp an' stakes him out, shoulder to shoulder, with the little Saucy Willow. Neither Bill nor the little Saucy Willow su'gests by word, screech or glance that they saveys either the game or the stakes, an' eats on, takin' no notice of themse'fs or any of the gluttons who surrounds 'em. Both Bill an' the little Saucy Willow looks that witless you-all would yearn to bat 'em one with the butt of a mule whip if onfortoonately you're present to be exasperated by sech exhibitions. At last, however, jest as the patience of the audience is plumb played, both Bill an' the little Saucy Willow gives a start of surprise. Which they're pretendin' to be startled to find they're feedin' off the same dish. Thar you be; that makes 'em 'buck an' squaw'—'man an' wife;' an' yereafter, in Osage circles they can print their kyards 'Mister an' Missis Bill Connors,' while Bill draws an' spends the little Saucy Willow's annooty on payment day instead of Strike Axe."
CHAPTER XIII. When Tutt first saw Tucson.
"An' speakin' of dooels," remarked the Old Cattleman, apropos of an anecdote of the field of honour wherewith I regaled his fancy, "speakin' of dooels, I reckons now the encounter Dave Tutt involves himse'f with when he first sees Tucson takes onchallenged preecedence for utter bloodlessness. She's shore the most lamb's-wool form of single combat to which my notice is ever drawn. Dave enlightens us concernin' its details himse'f, bein' incited tharunto by hearin' Texas Thompson relate about the Austin shootin' match of that Deaf Smith.
"'Which this yere is 'way back yonder on the trail of time,' explains Dave, 'an' I'm hardened a heap since then. I've jest come buttin' into Tucson an' it's easy money I'm the tenderest an' most ontaught party that ever wears store-moccasins. What I misses knowin' would make as husky a library,—if it's printed down in books,—as ever lines up on shelves. Also, I'm freighted to the limit with the tenderfoot's usual outfit of misinformation. It's sad, yet troo! that as I casts my gaze r'arward I identifies myse'f as the balmiest brand of shorthorn who ever leaves his parents' shelterin' roof.'
"'All the same,' says Dan Boggs, plenty conceited, 'I'll gamble a hoss I'm a bigger eediot when I quits Missouri to roam the cow country than ever you-all can boast of bein' in your most drivelin' hour.'
"'Do they lock you up?' asks Dave.