The apache mountain war

Some day, maybe, when I’m old and gray in the whiskers, I’ll have sense enough not to stop when I’m riding by Uncle Shadrach Polk’s cabin, and Aunt Tascosa Polk hollers at me. Take the last time, for instance. I ought to of spurred Cap’n Kidd into a high run when she stuck her head out’n the winder and yelled: “Breckinridge! Oh, Breckinridddgggge!”…