mentions, once. If I does, the fact's done pulled its picket-pin an'
strayed from my recollections."

I had recalled the name of a former friend, one Wilson, who, sore
given to liquor, had drifted to Arizona many years before and
disappeared. Suggesting "Wilson" to the Old Cattleman, I asked if he
had met with such a name and character in his Wolfville rambles.

As often chanced, however, the question bore fruit in a story. It
frequently needed but a slight blow from the rod of casual inquiry,
and the fountains of my old friend's reminiscences gushed forth.

"No, I never crosses up with him," observed the old Cattleman; "but
speakin' of Wilson puts in my mind a gent by the name of Wilkins,
who it's some likely is as disrepootable as your old pard Wilson."

"What about Wilkins?" I asked.

"Nothin' thrillin', "answered the old gentleman; "nothin' you'd stay
up nights to hear, I don't reckon. It's Wilkins's daughter who is
the only redeemin' thing about the old Cimmaron; an' it's a heap
likely right now it's her I remembers about instead of him.

"Not at all," he continued, "I don't mind onfoldin' as to Wilkins,
nor yet of an' concernin' his daughter. You see this Wilkins is
herdin' 'round Wolfville when I first trails in. I never does know
where he hails from. I don't reckon' though, he ever grades no ways
high, an' at the crisis I'm mentionin' his speshul play is gettin'
drunk mostly; an' not allowin' to hurt himse'f none with work.