It was shortly after dinner, and, being yet warm, the game had not grown hilarious. Davis, our post-surgeon, had not joined in the play. That afternoon he had been shooting fool quail on the mesquite flat up the Gila ; he was late at mess, so had rais ed the arrival of the week’s mail, this being Friday; and, still in shooting jacket, was seated at the reading-table, looking over news contained in the latest New York papers, now ten days old, and opening his letters. “ I thought I heard firing toward Mackay.” Davis had walked across the room and was standing near an open windew. He spoke quietly to the trader's clerk, still giving alert attention of one uncertain that he lias heard a sound. Mackay was an adobe village adjoining the garrison, where soldiers became intoxicated and were then robbed, for the territorial laws were getting severe, and it was not wise to rob men sober. Several shots fired in quick succession con firmed the doctor’s opinion ; there was a pause in the poker game, a shuffling back of chairs, and someone said : “ Remember, Jones, it was your anle,” as we joined the surgeon at the window. The shooting had ceased, and in the village we could now hear the barking of dogs, the hurrying of feet, and the sound of an unshod horse galloping over soft earth on the flat lead ing up to the post. A moment later the horse was halted under the sentry’s challenge at the corral, and a cowboy, clad as on rodeo, came into the general bar and asked for the post-sur geon, saying, as Davis entered : “Doc, they’ve had a scrap at the Harmony, and need you and an undertaker.” He spoke with the short, quick breath of one who has hastened. “ The undertaker can wait,” said Davis; “ but I’ll go down at once. Ride around to the hospital and tell the steward to bring my oper ating case and bandages to the Harmony. 