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stuff will firm up and take the place of something like teeth or a eyeball if either one gets lost for some reason or other. Or you could use a thread of surgeon’s silk. Sew the damn thing closed.”
    â€œWhy can’t I come in?” says Sister.
    â€œNo,” says Mr. Copeland. “Go tell Mama to put Grandma in the cooler.
Now
.”
    â€œWe might be able to use that cooler later on,” says Mr. Blankenship. He fixed the eyelid with the stuff he had. Then he steps over to the grip again and comes back with a big flat jar of something. “Now what this is is Higgins Glo-Tex, and the fact of the matter is this. What you—”
    â€œI want to show Bumpy how to jump a tooth,” said Mr. Copeland, “and then let him go finish what he was doing.”
    â€œBe my guest, pard.” Mr. Blankenship stepped back.
    â€œLook here, Bumpy. You take a cut nail, like this one, and place the point against the ridge of the tooth, just under the edge of the gum. This one’s loose. It ought to work.”
    â€œIs this just for dead people?” I asked.
    â€œNo, no, no. It’s for live people. I’m just demonstrating.”
    â€œWhy would you jump a tooth of a dead man?” Mr. Blankenship asked me.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I just never heard of it before.”
    â€œMaybe it’s aching,” said Zack. “You don’t know a dead man can’t have a toothache—except I guess it’d be kind of hard to figure out which one was aching.”
    Mr. Copeland picked up a hammer. “My uncle Ross used to do it.It’s a lost art. A man who knows how can jump a tooth without it hurting half as bad as pulling. Uncle Ross went to jump one of his own one time and missed and bloodied his nose with the hammer.”
    Mr. Copeland hit the nail with the hammer, hard, and the tooth popped out. I picked it up off the floor.
    Mr. Blankenship started back in on his work. “Now what this is is Glo-Tex,” he said. “What you’re trying to do is—”
    â€œI thought I was doing this,” said Mr. Copeland.
    â€œWell, P.J., if you’re bound and determined. But what difference does it make? We’re in this together.”
    â€œThe difference it makes is you the one said I was going to do this embalming and now
you
doing it—have about done it all.
That’s
the difference it makes.”
    â€œWell, go ahead. Here, pard. I don’t want to spoil a pretty day.”

STAR
    The final train from Denver to Mumford Rock was far less fancy than the train from St. Louis to Denver. The St. Louis train had gilded, oiled walnut fixtures, beautiful brass lamps, red velvet seat coverings, green carpeting, and white lace doilies. Yet even so, several miles out from the Mumford Rock depot, the faithful porter of the undecorated train came through with a brush, offering to brush our clothes. I accepted. He was very thorough, though not forward or indiscreet—he handed me the brush so Imight finish up.
    As I stepped down from the train, I noticed snow yet upon the summits of the most lofty mounts. Then I noticed several passengers pointing to and exclaiming about a single small electrical illuminary, strung up high between poles in front of the surprisingly quaint—and unfinished—train station. I had been told, we had all been told, by the knowledged Mr. Perkins, that electricity was now being used in Mumford Rock. Electricity, that grand Power Miracle that Mr. Perkins claims will unite with irrigation to make the West a paradise.
    One of the Mormon missionaries offered to carry my bag to the station. They are so clean and well mannered, bringing, I hope, a religious stability to the entire unstable West.
    Teams and wagons were everywhere. One wagon had furniture tied into and
onto
it, so that it looked like a giant ant loaded with dark, heavy giant bugs. It moved along slowly, away from me, accompanied by a