"'Don't put him up thar an' go sp'ilin' them mail-bags,' howls Old
Monte, as French an' a hoss-hustler from inside the corral lays hold
of the Navajo to throw him on with the baggage.

"'Then come down yere an' ride herd on the play yourse'f, you
murderin' sot!' says French.

"An' with that, he shore cuts loose an' cusses Old Monte frightful;
cusses till a cottonwood tree in front of the station sheds all its
leaves, an' he deadens the grass for a hundred yards about.

"'Promotin' a sepulcher in this rock-ribbed landscape,' says French,
as Jack Moore comes up, kind o' apol'gisin' for his profane voylence
at Old Monte; 'framin' up a tomb, I say, in this yere rock-ribbed
landscape ain't no child's play, an' I'm not allowin' none for that
homicide Monte to put no sech tasks on me. He knows the Wolfville
roole. Every gent skins his own polecats an' plants his own prey.'

"'That's whatever!' says Jack Moore, 'an' onless Old Monte is
thirstin' for trouble in elab'rate forms, he acquiesces tharin.'

"With that Old Monte hitches the Navajo to the hind axle with a
lariat which French brings out, an' then the stage, with the savage
coastin' along behind, goes rackin' off to the No'th. Later, Monte
an' the passengers hangs this yere remainder up in a pine tree, at
an Injun crossin' in the hills, as a warnin'. Whether it's a warnin'
or no, we never learns; all that's shore is that the remainder an'
the lariat is gone next day; but whatever idees the other Injuns
entertains of the play is, as I once hears a lecture sharp
promulgate, 'concealed with the customary stoicism of the American