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on he's a heap interested."You-all listen to me; let me tell you of a eel I snags onto down by Culpepper.When he bites that time Igives him both hands.That eel comes through the air jest whistlin'
an' w'irlin'.I slams him ag'inst the great state of Virginny.
Suppose one of them bass you boasts of takes sech a jolt.Whatever would he have done? He'd lay thar pantin' an' rollin' his eyes;mebby he curls his tail a little.That would be the utmost of them resentments of his.What does my eel do? Stranger, he stands up on his tail an' fights me.Game! that eel's game as scorpions! My dog Fido's with me.Fido wades into the eel, an' the commotion is awful.
That eel whips Fido in two minutes, Washin'ton time.How much does he weigh? Whatever do I know about it? When he's done put the gaffs into Fido, he nacherally sa'nters back into the branch where he lives at.I don't get him none; I deems I'm plumb lucky when he don't get me.Still, if any gent talks of game fish that a-way, Iwants it onderstood, I strings my money on that Culpepper eel."'
"'Thar, it's jest as I tells you-all, gents!' says Jack Moore a heap disgusted, when Colonel Sterett gets through.'This yere Davis is a imposter.Which thar's no mortal sport could know as little as he lets on an' live to reach his age.'
"We sets thar an' lays plans.At last in pursooance of them devices, it gets roomored about camp that the next day but one, both Enright an' the New York Store aims to send over to Tucson a roll of money the size of a wagon hub.
"'Thar's no danger of them hold-ups,' says Enright to this Davis, lettin' on he's a heap confidenshul.'They won't be lookin' for no sech riches bein' freighted over slap on the heels of this yere robbery.An' we don't aim to put up no gyards alongside of Old Monte neither.Gyards is no good; they gets beefed the first volley, an'
their presence on a coach that a-way is notice that thar's plenty of treasure aboard.'
"It's in this way Enright fills that Davis as full of misinformation as a bottle of rum.Also, we deems it some signif'cant when said shorthorn saddles his hoss over to the corral an' goes skally-hootin' for Tucson about first drink time in the mornin'.
"'I've a engagement in the Oriental S'loon,' he says, biddin' us good-bye plenty cheerful, 'but I'll be back among you-all sports in a week.I likes your ways a whole lot, an' I wants to learn 'em some.'
"'Which I offers four to one,' says Jack Moore, lookin' after him as he rides away, 'you'll be back yere sooner than that, an' you-all won't know it none, at that.'
"It's the next day when the stage starts; Old Monte is crackin' his whip in a hardened way, carin' nothin' for road agents as long as they don't interfere with the licker traffic.Thar's only one passenger.
"Shore enough, jest as it's closin' in some dark in Apache Canyon, an' the stage is groanin' an' creakin' along on a up grade, thar's a trio of hold-ups shows on the trail, an' the procession comes to a halt.Old Monte sets the brake, wrops the reins about it, locks his hands over his head, an' turns in to cuss.The hold-ups takes no notice.They yanks down the Wells-Fargo chest, pulls off the letter bag, accepts a watch an' a pocket-book from the gent inside, who's scared an' shiverin' an' scroogin' back in the darkest corner, he's that terror-bit, an' then they applies a few epithets to Old Monte an' commands him to pull his freight.An' Old Monte shorely obeys them mandates, an' goes crashin' off up the canyon on the run.
"Them outlaws hauls the plunder to one side of the trail an' lays for the mail-bag with a bowie.All three is as busy as prairy dogs after a rain, rippin' open letters an' lookin' for checks an'
drafts.Later they aims at some op'rations on the express company's box.
"But they never gets to the box.Thar's the lively tones of a Winchester which starts the canyon's echoes to talkin'.That rifle ain't forty foot away, an' it speaks three times before ever you-all, son, could snap your fingers.An' that weepon don't make them observations in vain.It ain't firin' no salootes.Quick as is the work, the sights shifts to a new target every time.At the last, all three hold-ups lays kickin' an' jumpin' like chickens that a-way, two is dead an' the other is too hard hit to respond.
"Whoever does it? Jack Moore, he's that one shiverin' passenger that time.He slides outen the stage as soon as ever it turns the angle of the canyon, an' comes scoutin' an' crawlin' back on his prey.An'
I might add, it shore soothes Jack's vanity a lot, when the first remainder shows down as that artless maverick, Davis.Jack lights a pine splinter an' looks him over-pale an' dead an' done.
"'Which you-all is the victim of over-play,' says Jack to this yere Davis, same as if he hears him, 'If you never asks to see my gun that time, it's even money my suspicions concernin' you might be sleepin' yet.'"
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