"'It must be more than a mite lonely for you,' she said, as we sat over her dough-nuts and flipflaps, 'up at the tavern. But you'll soon get to know all the leading people. They're a two-cent lot, the best of them. Scrimmy (we always called him Scrimmy for short) never cottoned to them. He used to say they were too low and common, mean enough to shoot a man without giving him a chance—a thing which Scrimmy, who was honourable from his boots up, would have scorned to do.'
"I asked if it was long since her husband had taken his departure.
"'He started,' she said, 'for kingdom come two months ago, if that's what you mean.'
"'Long ill?'
"'Ill?' she replied, as if surprised at the question. 'Scrimmy never was ill in his life. He was quite the wrong man for that. Scrimmy was killed.'
"'Was he,' I asked. 'Railway accident, I suppose?'
"Mrs. Scrimmager looked at me resentfully, as if she thought I really ought to have known better. Then she curved her upper lip in disdain.
"'Railway accident! Not much. Scrimmy was shot.'
"'Terrible!' I ejaculated, with a nervous sensation, because I guessed what was coming.
"'Well, it was rough on him,' she said. 'Scrimmy and Huggins of the Scalper—do you know Huggins? Well, you'll meet him soon enough for your health. They hadn't been friends for a long while, and each man was waiting to draw a bead on the other. How they did go for one another! As an ink-slinger, Huggins wasn't a patch on my husband; but Huggins was a trifle handier with his irons. In fact, Huggins has shot enough men to make a small graveyard of his own; and his special weakness is editors of your paper.'