and scurrying forms rose before his mind.

"And now about that child, seven years ago," the young man said,
when the last hoarse sound of mirth had died away.

"Why, yes, me and the boys was bringing about two thousand head up
to Abiline when we come on to this same pardner and another man
walking the trail, with a little gal coming behind 'em on her pony.
And it was this same gal. I reckon she was seven or eight year old,
then. Well, sir, I just thought as I looked at her, that I never
seen a prettier sight in this world and I reckon I ain't, for when
I looked at the same gal the other day, the gun she was holding up
to her eye sort of dazzled me so I couldn't take stock of all her
good points. But seeing that little gal out there in the plains
it was like hearing an old-fashioned hymn at the country
meeting-house and knowing a big basket dinner was to follow. I
can't express it more deep than that. We went into camp that
evening, and all of us got pretty soft and mellow, what from the
unusualness of the meeting, and we asked the old codger if we could
all come over to his camp and shake hands with the gal--he'd drawed
back from us about a mile, he was that skeered to be sociable. So
after considerable haggling and jawing, he said we could, and here
we come, just about sundown, all of us looking sheepish enough to
be carved for mutton, but everlasting determined to take that gal
by the paw."

"Well?" said the young man who had often heard this story, but had
never been treated to the sequel, "what happened then, Mizzoo? You
always stop at the same place. Didn't you shake hands with her?"