CHAPTER VII.

The Mills of Savage Gods.

"Thar might, of course, be romances in the West," observed the Old
Cattleman, reflectively, in response to my question, "but the folks
ain't got no time. Romance that a-way demands leesure, an' a party has
to be more or less idlin' about to get what you-all might style
romantic action. Take that warjig whereof I recently relates an'
wherein this yere Wild Bill Hickox wipes out the McCandlas gang--six to
his Colt's, four to his bowie, an' one to his Hawkins rifle; eleven in
all--I asks him myse'f later when he's able to talk, don't he regyard
the eepisode as some romantic. An' Bill says, 'No, I don't notice no
romance tharin; what impresses me most is that she's shore a zealous
fight--also, mighty busy.'

"Injuns would be romantic, only they're so plumb ignorant they never
once saveys. Thar's no Injun word for 'romantic'; them benighted
savages never tumblin' to sech a thing as romance bein' possible. An'
yet said aborigines engages in plays which a eddicated Eastern taste
with leesure on its hands an' gropin' about for entertainment would
pass on as romantic.

"When I'm pesterin' among the Osages on that one o'casion that I'm
tryin' to make a round-up of my health, the old buck Strike Axe relates
to me a tale which I allers looks on as possessin' elements. Shore;
an' it's as simple an' straight as the sights of a gun. It's about a
squaw an' three bucks, an' thar's enough blood in it to paint a waggon.
Which I reckons now I'll relate it plain an' easy an' free of them