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Updated: May 7, 2025
"The Bugologist," they called him in cardroom circles at the "store," where men were fiercely intolerant of other pursuits than poker, for which pastime Mr. Blakely had no use whatever no more use than had its votaries for him.
At any rate I quickened my pace in the hope of seeing her. Suddenly, my horse shied and a familiar little car flashed past me. But the driver was not familiar. It was Elaine's roadster. In it was a stranger a man who looked like a "bugologist," as nearly as I can describe him. Was he running off with her car while she was waiting inside the hotel? I galloped after him.
He drowned with a jet of tobacco juice a Gila monster that was staring at him and took a savage delight in its frantic efforts to bury itself. Soon he heard Skinny swear and he sung out: "What's the matter, Skinny? Git plugged again?" "Naw, bugs ain't they mean?" Plaintively asked his friend. "They ain't none over here. What kind of bugs?" "Sufferin' Moses, I ain't no bugologist! All kinds!"
It's the Bugologist," and in another moment he and his orderly afoot, in worn Apache moccasins, but equipped with crammed haversacks and ammunition belts, were being welcomed by the besieged. There was little of the emotional and nothing of the melodramatic about it. It was, if anything, rather commonplace.
It was Blakely's way. And that was the last heard of the Bugologist for as much as a week. Meantime there was a painful situation at Fort Whipple, away up in "the hills." Major Plume, eager on his wife's account to get her to the seashore "Monterey or Santa Barbara," said the sapient medical director and ceaselessly importuned by her and viciously nagged by Elise, found himself bound to the spot.
The Bugologist with his one orderly, and apparently without the Apache Yuma scouts, had gone straightway to the rescue of Wren. Thank God that Stout with his supplies and stalwart followers was not more than two days' march away, and was going straightway to the rescue!
Most of the time, he declared, he had spent in a big rocking chair on the porch at the side door, but the scent of the weed and of that veteran pipe permeated the entire premises, and the Bugologist hated dead tobacco. He got up and tore down the blanket screen at the side windows and opened all the doors wide and tried his couch again, and still he wooed the drowsy god in vain.
He had been thinking much of Blakely through the solemn afternoon, as he wandered nervously about his darkened quarters, sometimes tiptoeing to the bedside of his feebly moaning, petulant wife, sometimes pacing the library and hall. He had been again for half an hour closeted with Byrne and the Bugologist, certain letters being under inspection.
"What's to prevent her singing their confounded death song, or invoking heathen spirits, or knifing us all, for that matter?" "What was to prevent her from knifing the Bugologist and Angela both, when she had 'em?" was the sturdy reply. "The girl's a theoretical heathen, but a practical Christian.
There are those who say the love of an Indian girl, once given, surpasses that of her Circassian sister, and Bridger now was learning new stories of the Bugologist with every day of his progress in Apache lore. He had even dared to bid his impulsive little wife "go slow," should she ever again be tempted to say spiteful things of Blakely.
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