Puttin’ the woman an’ her son up in the sky didn’t square things in Horace’s religion, neither; ’cause he said ’at Hera got jealous of Zeus for elevatin’ the woman and she went to her foster parents who had charge of the ocean, and made ’em bar this woman and her son from ever goin’ into it, the same as the other stars did, and he could prove it any clear night. I told him that he might get away with such a tale as that back East among the indoor people; but that he couldn’t fool a day-old child with it out our way.
We started this discussion the day after the fall round-up was over, Horace had toughened up before it began, and he had rode with me all through it, and takin’ it all in all he was more help than bother, except that he shot too much. When he had come out before, he had been so blame harmless he couldn’t have shot an innocent bystander; but this trip, he was blazin’ away at every livin’ thing ’at didn’t have a dollar mark on it, and when these wasn’t offered, he’d waste ammunition on a mark.
I had some details to tend to after the round-up, so we didn’t get a chance to settle the bet for several days. It was only a dollar bet; but when the time came, I picked out a couple o’ good hosses, bein’ minded to look at the stars from the top o’ Cat Head.
We reached it about dark, made some coffee, an’ fried some bacon. Then we smoked an’ talked until it was entirely dark before we ever looked up at the stars. “Now, bluffer,” sez I, “show me your woman-bear.”
He looked up at the sky, an’ then moved on out o’ the firelight, an’ continued to look at the stars without speakin’. “Don’t seem to see ’em, do you?” I taunted.
He turned to me an’ spoke in a hushed voice: “Man,” he said, “this is wonderful. Why, the way those stars seem to be hangin’ down from that velvet dome is simply awe-inspirin’. I’ve looked through three good telescopes, but to-night, I seem to be viewin’ the heavens for the first time.”
“I thought you wasn’t much familiar with ’em, or you wouldn’t have put out that nonsense about a bear-woman,” I sez.
“That,” sez he, pointin’ to the best known group o’ stars in the sky, “is Ursa Major.”
“That,” sez I, “is the Big Dipper, an’ you needn’t try to fool me by givin’ it one o’ your Greek names.”
He didn’t argue with me; but came back to the fire an’ fixed some stones in the shape of the Big Dipper stars, then drew lines with a stick, an’ sez ’at this made up the Great Bear. I looked him between the eyes, but he held his face, so I knew he was in earnest. “All right,” I sez. “I’ll take you huntin’ some o’ these days, an’ if we chance to come across a silver-tip—a real grizzly, understand, and not a pet varmint backed up again’ the risin’ sun—you’ll change your mind about what a bear looks like. If that was all your fool Greeks knew about wild animals, I wouldn’t waste my time to hear what they had to say about gods an’ goddusses. I’m goin’ to start back, an’ you can come or not, just as you please.” This was the first time I had hinted about the woodchuck; but I was disgusted at his nonsense. He took it all right, though, which proves he was game.