I was standing in the post-office, which was a store and saloon as well,
when an old fellow with stubby whiskers and a jaw that looked as though it
had been trimmed square with a rule, and a limp that made me know at once
who he was, came in. He was standing at the little square window, talking
to the postmaster and waving his pipe to emphasize what he said, when
a horse went past the door on the dead run, with bridle-reins flying.
A fellow rushed out past us--it was his horse--and hit old King's elbow
a clip as he went by. The pipe went about ten feet and landed in a
pickle-keg. I went after it and fished it out for the old fellow--not so
much because I'm filled with a natural courtesy, as because I was curious
to know the man that had got the best of dad.

He thanked me, and asked me across to the saloon side of the room to drink
with him. "I don't know as I've met you before, young man," he said, eying
me puzzled. "Your face is familiar, though; been in this country long?"

"No," I said; "a little over a month is all."

"Well, if you ever happen around my way--King's Highway, they call my
place--stop and see me. Going to stay long out here?"

"I think so," I replied, motioning the waiter--"bar-slave," they call them
in Montana--to refill our glasses. "And I'll be glad to call some day,
when I happen in your neighborhood. And if you ever ride over toward the
Bay State, be sure you stop."

Well, say! old King turned the color of a ripe prune; every hair in that
stubble of beard stood straight out from his chin, and he looked as if
murder would be a pleasant thing. He took the glass and deliberately
emptied the whisky on the floor. "John Carleton's son, eh? I might 'a'