pasted some co't plaster over the hole on his cheek-bone where the
bullet gets in, an' all 'round Jack looks better than I ever sees
him.

"'Let the congregation remove its hats,' says Peets, a-settin' down
on a box up at Jack's head, 'an' as many as can will please get
somethin' to camp on. Now, my friends," he continues, "thar ain't no
need of my puttin' on any frills or gettin' in any scroll work. The
objects of this convention is plain an' straight. Mister King, here
present, is dead. Deceased is a very headstrong person, an' persists
yesterday in entertainin' views touchin' a club flush, queen at the
head, which results in life everlastin'. Now, gents, this is a
racket full of solemnity. We wants nothin' but good words. Don't
mind about the trooth; which the same ain't in play at a funeral,
nohow. We all knows Jack; we knows his record. Our information is
ample that a-way; how he steals a hoss at Tucson; how be robs a gent
last fall at Tombstone; how he downs a party at Cruces; how that
scar on his neck he gets from Wells-Fargo's people when he stands up
the stage over on the Lordsburg trail. But we lays it all aside to-
day. We don't copper nary bet. Yesterday mornin', accompanied by the
report of a Colt's forty-five, Mister King, who lies yere so cool
an' easy, leaves us to enter in behind the great white shinin' gates
of pearl an' gold, which swings inward to glory eternal. It's a
great set back at this time thar ain't no sky-pilot in the camp.
This deeficiency in sky-pilots is a hoss onto us, but we does our
best. At a time like this I hears that singin' is a good, safe
break, an' I tharfore calls on that little girl from Flagstaff to
give us "The Dyin' Ranger."

"So the little Flagstaff girl cl'ars her valves with a drink, an'