"'Whatever's the meanin' of this yere concourse?' demands old Glegg, as he comes into the New York store, an' p'intin' to where Peets an' Texas an' Cherokee Hall, along with Enright, is standin' about; 'an' why does these hold-ups'—yere he indicates Dan an' Jack,—'denoode me of my hardware, I'd like to know?'
"'These gents,' says Enright, 'is a quorum of that respectable body known as the Wolfville Stranglers, otherwise a Vig'lance Committee; an' your guns was took so as to redooce the chances of hangin' you—the same bein' some abundant, nacheral,—to minimum. Now who be you? also, what's your little game?'
"'My name's Benjamin Glegg,' responds old Glegg. 'I owns the Sunflower brand an' ranch. As for my game: thar's a member of my fam'ly escapes this mornin'—comes streamin' over yere, I onderstands—an' I'm in the saddle tryin' to round her up. Gents,' concloods old Glegg, an' he displays emotion, 'I'm simply a harassed parent on the trail of his errant offspring.'
"Then Enright makes old Glegg a long, soft talk, an' seeks to imboo him with ca'mness. He relates how Abby an' the pinfeather sport dotes on each other; an' counsels old Glegg not to come pesterin' about with roode objections to the weddin'.
"'Which I says this as your friend,' remarks Enright.
"'It's as the scripter says,' replies old Glegg, who's mollified a lot, 'it's as the good book says: A soft answer turneth away wrath; but more speshully when the opp'sition's got your guns. I begins to see things different. Still, I hates to lose my Abby that a-way. Since my old woman dies, Abby, gents, has been the world an' all to me.'
"'Is your wife dead?" asks Enright, like he sympathises.
"'Shore!' says old Glegg; 'been out an' gone these two years. She's with them cherubim in glory. But folks, you oughter seen her to onderstand my loss. Five years ago we has a ranch over back of the Tres Hermanas by the Mexico line. The Injuns used to go lopin' by our ranch, no'th an' south, all the time. You-all recalls when they pays twenty-five dollars for skelps in Tucson? My wife's that thrifty them days that she buys all her own an' my child Abby's clothes with the Injuns she pots. Little Abby used to scout for her maw. "Yere comes another!" little Abby would cry, as she stampedes up all breathless, her childish face aglow. With that, my wife would take her hands outen the wash-tub, snag onto that savage with her little old Winchester, and quit winner twenty-five right thar.'
"'Which I don't marvel you-all mourns her loss,' says Enright consolin'ly.
"'She's shorely—Missis Glegg is—' says old Glegg, shakin' his grizzly head; 'she's shore the most meteoric married lady of which hist'ry says a word. My girl Abby's like her.'