Thar's that Gene Watkins, who gets killed by lightnin' over
by the Eagle Claw that time; downed for blasphemin', he is."
"Let me hear about this Watkins," I urged; "no one is more
interested in the doings of Providence than I."
"Which from what little I notes of you," he observed, regarding me
with a glance of dubious, sour suspicion, "you-all shore ought to
be. An' I'll tell you one thing: If Providence ever gets wearied of
the way you acts--an' it ain't none onlikely--you might as well set
in your chips an' quit.
"But as to this yere Watkins: I don't know about the wisdom of
burdenin' you with Watkins. It's gettin' plenty late, an' I'm some
fatigued myse'f; I must be organizin' to bed myse'f down a lot for
the night. I ain't so cap'ble of sleeplessness as I am 'way back
yonder in the years when I'm workin' cattle along the old Jones an'
Plummer trail. However, it won't take long, this Watkins killin';
an' seein' my moods is in the saddle that a-way, I may as well let
you have it. This yere ain't a story exackly; it's more like a
aneckdote; but it allers strikes me as sheddin' a ray on them
speshul Providences.
"This Watkins is a mere yooth; he jumps into Wolfville from the
Texas Panhandle, where, it's rumored, he's been over free with a
gun.
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