the mutton-heads they take into the army. Oh, now, you need n't scowl
at me like that, Wyman; I 've worn the blue, and seen some service
where a fellow needed to be a man to sport the uniform. Besides, I 'm
not indifferent, old chap, and just so long as there remained any work
worth attending to in this skirmishing affair, I did it, did n't I?
But I tell you, man, there is mighty little good trying to buck against
Fate, and when Luck once finally lets go of a victim, he's bound to
drop straight to the bottom before he stops. That's the sum and
substance of all my philosophy, old fellow, consequently I never kick
simply because things happen to go wrong. What's the use? They 'll go
wrong just the same. Then again, my life has never been so sweet as to
cause any excessive grief over the prospect of losing it. Possibly I
might prefer to pass out from this world in some other manner, but
that's merely a matter of individual taste, and just now there does n't
seem to be very much choice left me. Consequently, upheld by my
acquired philosophy, and encouraged by the rectitude of my past
conduct, I 'm merely holding back one shot for myself, as a sort of
grand finale to this fandango, and another for that little girl out
yonder."

These words were uttered slowly, the least touch of a lazy drawl
apparent in the low voice, yet there was an earnest simplicity
pervading the speech which somehow gave it impressiveness. The man
meant exactly what he said, beyond the possibility of a doubt. The old
soldier, accustomed to every form of border eccentricity, gazed at him
with disapproval.

"Either you 're the coolest devil I 've met during thirty years of
soldiering," he commented, doubtfully, "or else the craziest. Who are
you, anyhow? I half believe you might be Bob Hampton, of Placer."