Willcox woke, rubbed its eyes and remembered a minister was to hold Divine Services that day of the year. Ten o'clock arrived. The first youngsters and their adult family connections approached the church gate. They congregated in animated groups, were joined by others, and finally spectators across the street, realizing that something interesting was detaining the congregation from entering the church, sauntered over. These inquirers hastened back to town and circulated news that caused a veritable stampede.
By the time the minister reached the scene the crowd composed the entire population of the town—men, women, children and dogs, several of the latter adding to the excitement by proceeding to settle feuds of long standing.
The Reverend Silas Hunter passed through the gate and his eyes swept the crowd, then rested on the centre of attraction—a husky, white-faced calf tethered to the fence by a rope. The animal had been lying down, in no way disturbed by the people or dog-fights, but as the Dominie scrutinized it, it rose and bellowed loudly into his face amid shouts of laughter. Across the calf's back swung the placards on which, printed in irregular letters, were the words;
I AM NOT TO BIG TO KUM
BUT FOR GODS SAKE HEAD
OF THE PROJIGUL SON.
"Oh!" ejaculated the Reverend Hunter, beaming upon the assemblage. "I see we have a donation. We will keep the calf, sell it and apply the proceeds to our Church Funds. Now," he addressed two half-grown lads, "you boys sit close to the door during services and see that the calf does not get away. Some unprincipled person might try to steal it, you know. We will find a place to care for it after services."
Across the street Bronco, Roarer and Holy stood in consultation. They had hovered on the edge of the crowd when the minister made his announcement, and they realized there was to be no opportunity to get possession of that calf in order to turn it loose—as they had planned.
"Say, he sure called our hands," said Holy despondently. "He's too derned smart to be a minister. What the devil are we goin' to do about it?"
"Let him keep the doggone calf and we'll have to put up a jackpot for the feller that owns it," advised Bronco.
"It ain't marked," squeaked Roarer excitedly. "Did any of you see the brand on the cow it was with?"
None of them had noticed such a trifle in their desire to capture the calf and accomplish the trick without discovery.