wicked brute with our pitchforks. All that followed is a tangled, bad dream of hurry, fear, yells, oaths, and myself stabbing, stabbing, stabbing with the pitchfork. Then a gun cracked somewhere, a black mass toppled toward me that knocked me sprawling—and all was still. I sat for a moment, smiling foolishly and fumbling for my hat. Steve raised me by the arm. He still had his revolver in his hand, and his glance on the dead stallion. He asked me if I was hurt, and I said yes. He asked me where, and I said that made no difference. Then, as I came to a little more, I said I guessed I wasn't hurt, and looked around. Oscar had Sally in his arms. The tears were running down his cheeks, and he moved his head from side to side, like a man in agony. Her head was buried in his breast, her hands locked around his neck. It was well with them, evidently. But limp upon the ground, his forehead varnished red, lay old Charley. 

 We turned him over tenderly, wiping the blood away. Steve's lips quivered as he put his hand on the old man's heart. He kept it there a long time. Then he said huskily, "He's gone!"  At the words the sound eye of the victim popped open with a suddenness that made my heart throw a somersault. It was as sane, calm, and undisturbed an optic as ever regarded the world. 

 "G-a-w-n H—l!" said Charley. 

 We laughed and wiped our eyes with our coat sleeves, and got the old boy to his feet. 

 "Same old Texas," said he, feeling of his head (the hoof had scraped, instead of smashing), "slightly disfiggered, but still in the ring." 

 He caught sight of the lovers.  "Hello!" he said.  "Oscar's made his ante good at last—bad hawse works as well as Injuns."  We started to lead him by the pair. 

 "Naw, boys," he commanded.  "Take me 'round 't'uther way. That gal don't want to see me now, all bloody and mussed up like this." 

 It was useless to attempt making a hero of Charley. 

 

 

 Billy the Buck 

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