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"It's at one of my camps one evenin' when I crosses up first with this yere Hardrobe. His boy, Bloojacket, is with him. Hardrobe himse'f is mebby goin' on fifty, while Bloojacket ain't more'n say twenty-one.
"'He was a great man, says Bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, with his good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the Osages.
"'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit! says the Caldwell beauty, as she runs her eye along the sights. 'I must aim low or I'll shore make ragged work. "Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a stachoo. Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot.
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