Part 13 (2/2)

Now, be it known that Rattlesnake had fled away to the north and east, as though heading for Hays-a course the reverse of that given by Jack.

The intervention, and the brisk falsehoods so cheerfully fulminated, took away the breath of Higginson Peabody. Before he regained it Mr.

Masterson was a mile on his way to the Cimarron Crossing.

”How could you lie like that?” demanded Higginson Peabody, regarding Jack with wondering horror; ”how could you lie like that, and you but fourteen! That Rattlesnake man went east, not west; and Mr. Masterson is an officer of the law!”

”What of it?” retorted Jack, indignantly; ”d'you think I'd throw down a subscriber?” Then, as he reached for his cap: ”I reckon I'd better go over to the Alhambra an' see how hard old Kell got plugged. It ought to be good for a column. Say!” and Jack beamed on Higginson Peabody, ”if he'd only beefed old Kell, wouldn't it have been hot stuff?”

Higginson Peabody, when he graduated from Harvard, had been invited into the counting-room of his father's State Street bank. But the old migratory instinct of his puritan ancestry was rife within him, and he hungered to go abroad into the land. The expanding West invited him; also, he distasted a bank and liked the notion of a paper.

”Well,” said the elder Peabody, ”I don't blame you. Ma.s.sachusetts and Boston aren't what they were. New England to-day is out in Kansas and Nebraska.”

Higginson Peabody resolved to start a paper. Dodge occurred to him; a friend returning had told him that newsy things were p.r.o.ne to happen in Dodge. The soil, by the friend's word, was kindly; Higginson Peabody thought it would nourish and upbuild a paper. Wherefore, one bright autumnal morning, he dropped off at Dodge. Going over to the hotel he took a room by the month and confided to Mr. Wright that he would found the _Weekly Planet_.

Mr. Wright squeezed the hand of Higginson Peabody until it hung limp as a rag.

”It was an inspiration when you decided to come to Dodge,” said Mr.

Wright.

”Do you think,” asked Higginson Peabody, painfully separating each finger from its fellows, ”do you think your city ready for the birth of a great paper?”

”Ready? Dodge'll sit up nights to rock its cradle and warm its milk!”

quoth Mr. Wright.

Mr. Wright went down to the Long Branch and told Mr. Short. As information radiated from the Long Branch the extremest corner of Dodge was filled with the news in an hour.

When Mr. Wright withdrew to the Long Branch he left Higginson Peabody sitting on the hotel porch. The costume of Higginson Peabody culminated in a silk hat that would have looked well on Boston Common. The tall, s.h.i.+ny hat excited the primitive interest of Cimarron Bill, who lightly shot it from the head of its owner. Then, with bullet following bullet, he rolled it along the sidewalk. Several gentlemen joined Cimarron Bill in this sprightly pastime of the hat. Full twenty took part, and Higginson Peabody's headgear, to quote Cimarron Bill as he reported the episode later to Mr. Masterson, was:

”A heap shot up.”

”He's an editor,” warned Mr. Masterson, ”and going to start a paper.

Mind, you mustn't hurt him!”

”Hurt him!” retorted Cimarron Bill. ”If I do I hope to go afoot the balance of my life-I do, sh.o.r.e!”

Mr. Wright returned from the Long Branch, bringing Mr. Short. Higginson Peabody mentioned the adventures of his hat.

”It's my fault,” said Mr. Wright; ”I'd ought to have told you. That breed of war-bonnet is ag'inst the rules of our set.”

”That's right,” coincided Mr. Short; ”only sooicides wear 'em in Dodge.”

”We'll fix it,” observed Mr. Wright, who noticed that Higginson Peabody looked cast down. ”What's the size of your head?”

”Seven and an eighth,” returned Higginson Peabody, doubtfully.

”Seven and an eighth!” repeated Mr. Wright: ”It'll grow in Dodge. See if it ain't two sizes larger in a month.”

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