"'Ah!' says he, waving his specks in enthusiasm. 'The abiding peace of a life like yours!—I beg your pardon?'
"'I have an attack of this here bronco-kitus,' says I. 'I cough almost like conversation—go on.'
"'To live,' says he, 'in the great peace of these enormous spaces—to spread God's clean sky above you and pass into a sleep where this sweet air shall hush me through the night, like the wind from angels' wings. With what a sick longing have I looked for this!
"'That's it!' says I. 'Pardner, you've struck it. There ain't one man in a thousand thinks of tuckin' the sky around him when he turns in, but many a time when I've shoveled the last batch of centipedes and tarantulas into the fire, petted a side-winder good-night, and fired a farewell shot at a scalplock vanishin' over the hill, I've thought that same thing. Oh! the soothin' gooley-woo of windin' yourself up in a bright-colored sunset and lyin' down to peaceful dreams! I sleep too hard to remember about the angels' wings.'
"I spoke so earnest he swallowed me whole. 'Centipedes and tarantulas,' says he, musin' (evidently he hadn't figured on 'em); 'an' what is a "side-winder," Mr. Scraggs?'
"'A "side-winder," sir,' says I, 'is a rattlesnake who travels on the bias, as I've heard my wife remark about her clothes—he's a kind of Freemason; he lets you in on the level and out on the queer."
"'Rattlesnake?' says he; 'ha—hum—rattlesnake, yes, yes, yes—not dangerous, I hope?'
"'Oh, no!' says I. 'He bites you up somewhat, but it's only play.'
"Right here he got off a joke. It took some time—I see it comin.'
"Rather dangerous play, that, Mr. Scraggs, heh?' says he. 'Ha, ha, ha!'