"Whatever does this yere maverick do to me? Well, nothin' much to me
personal; but he keeps a-breedin' of events which pesters me.
"We're out about four days when them mishaps begins. I camps over
one sun on the Concha to rest my mules. I'm loaded some heavy with
six thousand pounds in the lead, an' mebby four thousand pounds in
the trail wagon; an' I stops a day to give my stock a chance to roll
an' breathe an' brace up. My off-wheel mule--a reg'lar shave-tail--
is bad med'cine. Which he's not only eager to kick towerists an'
others he takes a notion ag'inst; but he's likewise what you-alls
calls a kleptomaniac, an' is out to steal an' sim'lar low-down
plays.
"I warns this yere tenderfoot--his name's Smith, but I pulls on him
when conversin' as 'Colonel'--I warns this shorthorn not to fuss
'round my Jerry mule, bein', as I states, a mule whose mood is
ornery.
"'Don't go near him, Colonel,' says I; 'an' partic'lar don't go
crowdin' 'round to get no r'ar views of him. You-all has no idee of
the radius of that mule; what you might call his sweep. You never
will till he's kicked you once or twice, an' the information ain't
worth no sech price. So I don't reckon I'd fool with him, none
whatever.
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