It came in easy illustration, as answer to my question, for the Old
Cattleman to recall the funeral of a former leading spirit of
Southwestern society. The name of this worthy was Jack King; and
with a brief exposition of his more salient traits, my grizzled
raconteur led down to his burial with the remark before quoted.

"Of course," continued the Old Cattleman, "of course while thar's
some like this Yallerhouse gent who survives; thar's others of the
boys who is downed one time an' another, an' goes shoutin' home to
heaven by various trails. But ontil the event I now recalls, the
remainders has been freighted east or west every time, an' the camp
gets left. It's hard luck, but at last it comes toward us; an' thar
we be one day with a corpse all our'n, an' no partnership with
nobody nor nothin'.

"'It's the chance of our life,' says Doc Peets, 'an' we plays it.
Thar's nothin' too rich for our blood, an' these obsequies is goin'
to be spread-eagle, you bet! We'll show Red Dog an' sim'lar villages
they ain't sign-camps compared with Wolfville.'

"So we begins to draw in our belts an' get a big ready. Jack King,
as I says before, is corpse, eemergin' outen a game of poker as
sech. Which prior tharto, Jack's been peevish, an' pesterin' an'
pervadin' 'round for several days. The camp stands a heap o' trouble
with him an' tries to smooth it along by givin' him his whiskey an'
his way about as he wants 'em, hopin' for a change. But man is only
human, an' when Jack starts in one night to make a flush beat a tray
full for seven hundred dollars, he asks too much.