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"Bloojacket gives himse'f up to the Osages an' is thrown loose on p'role. But Bloojacket never gets tried. "A week rides by, an' he's standin' in front of the agency, sort o' makin' up some views concernin' his destinies.
Shore, they're out for cattle, too; them savages has a heap of cattle, an' since they finds their brands an' bunches same as the rest of us all tangled up with the Yellowstone aliens doorin' the blizzard, Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket rides up an' asks can they work partners with a outfit of mine.
This young Bloojacket, who's bubblin' over with sperits has a heap of interestin' stories about the 'Grey Fox. It's doo to Bloojacket to say he performs them dooties of his as a scout like a clean-strain sport, an' quits an' p'ints back for the paternal camp of Hardrobe in high repoote.
Jest as I turns my back, thar's the crack! of a rifle to the r'ar of the j'int, an' Hardrobe pitches onto the floor as dead as ever transpires in that tribe. In the back door, with one arm in a sling, an' a gun that still smokes, ca'm an' onmoved like Injuns allers is, stands Bloojacket. "'My hand is forced, he says, as he passes me his gun; 'it's him or me!
Her pony's gone to sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the Caldwell beauty settles herse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows is comin'. The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate as trees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.
Then he sends the Red Cloud interpreter an' four local Injuns with lead hosses to pack this information back to Merritt who's waitin' the word at the Rawhide Buttes. Bloojacket, for all he's done a hundred miles, declar's himse'f in on this second excursion to show the interpreter the way.
Moreover he gets used frequent to things that he's born with notions ag'inst; an' them aversions will simmer an' subside ontil he's friendly with folks he once honed to shoot on sight. It turns out that a-way about me an' this Hardrobe an' his boy Bloojacket.
Which Stanton, Bloojacket an' the others makes her in twelve hours even, an' comes up, a crust of dust an' sweat, to the Red Cloud agency at midnight sharp. The Cheyennes has already been gone eight hours over the Great Northern trail.
"'But you-all won't last through, says Stanton, where he sets on the steps, quaffin' whiskey an' reinvig'ratin' himse'f. "'Which if I don't, I'll turn squaw! says Bloojacket, an' gettin' fresh hosses with the others he goes squanderin' off into the midnight.
The Caldwell beauty keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up the brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an' thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your finger-tip. Which he's dead dead without a motion, while the poker bucks plays ca'mly on." My venerable friend came to a full stop.
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