"The same thing seems to have occurred amongst the Hindoos, the Persians, the Druids, and in the South Seas. The Japanese Feast of Lanterns is also supposed to commemorate this event, whilst the ancient inhabitants of Mexico had a tradition that the world had been destroyed at the midnight culmination of the Pleiades. This is all mysteriously borne out by the fact that Taurus, the Bull, whom you have just looked at, shows only his head and shoulders; he is supposed to be swimming."
"That's shore interesting as an idee," commented Broncho. "But do you-alls regyard this here flood superstition you recounts as a likely play?"
"It's only a theory, Broncho, with maybe nothing in it."
"Theeries is theeries, an' facts is facts. I meets a gent once way down to Tombstone, who allows he's the bigges' full-blooded wolf in Arizona. He's shore a tough citizen a whole lot, carries a six-gun with the stock full o' notches an' the trigger tied back. Wall, this here Tombstone sport, which his name is P'ison Dick (an' he's shore p'isonous as a t'rantler) cherishes the theery, an' gives it out premiscuous as a hoss-back opinion, that a 45-calibre bullet ain't able to worry him none; if he accoomilates one he allows he assimilates it into his system, an' don't take no more account tharof. That's his theery, an' as mebbe you-alls shrewdly surmises, it bogs down in the dust before facts—an' it's this way; he's been a-loafin' around Tombstone mebbe hard on the hocks of a year, an' the camp's shore full to bustin' with his goin's on; and I ain't wonderin', for there ain't a moon goes by without Tombstone's shy a citizen an' mebbe a greaser or two, all corpses o' this P'ison Dick's layin' out.
"Wall, it's 'bout sundown, one day in the early fall, when a stranger comes lopin' into camp on a played-out pinto pony, which he halts up before the 'Gold Nugget,' old Konkey Bell's saloon, an' proceeds to dismount tharfrom like as if he's some wearied an' bone-tired. I notes this through the door, from where I'm buckin' a faro game, an' likewise takes in a pair o' big black eyes an' a smooth face. 'It's a boy,' I remyarks casual to myself as I coppers my bet, an' the next minit I sees this here black-eyed foreigner up agen the bar, a-swallowin' a drink 'longside o' P'ison Dick. It ain't manners none to take a drink alone that-away, an' is liable to make a gent too conspicuous to be healthy; but seein' he's a stranger and without many rings on his horns, it passes. P'ison Dick scowls, but says nothin'; then poco tiempo tells the bar-keep to set 'em up again.
"The bar-keep slams down a glass before the stranger, who pushes it away some careless, an' allows he's done finished lubricatin'.
"P'ison Dick's eyes kinder narrowed like a snake's.
"'I'm askin' you to hev' a drink, stranger,' he says, colder'n ice in hell.
"You-alls may surmise the rest of us is some taciturn, not to say mute a whole lot, an' some foxy longhorns is already takin' cover.
"The stranger smiles kinder queer at Dick—jest a mouth twist, his eyes lookin' a heap grim; an' he stands thar for mebbe the length of a drink o' whisky, then snaps out in a sorter shaky screech, 'To hell with yer drink!' an' before you can turn a kyard over, he ups an' has the glass bruck on P'ison Dick's crimson beak.