THE RED-BLOODED

HEROES OF THE FRONTIER

BY

EDGAR BEECHER BRONSON

Author of "Reminiscences of a Ranchman"

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LONDON ---- NEW YORK ---- TORONTO

COPYRIGHT

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1910

Published September 10, 1910

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England

 _The author acknowledges his indebtedness to the editors of periodicals in which some of this material has appeared, for permission to use the same in this volume. _

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I LOVING'S BEND

CHAPTER II A COW-HUNTERS' COURT

CHAPTER III A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER

CHAPTER IV TRIGGERFINGERITIS

CHAPTER V A JUGGLER WITH DEATH

CHAPTER VI AM AERIAL BIVOUAC

CHAPTER VII THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER

CHAPTER VIII CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS

CHAPTER IX ACROSS THE BORDER

CHAPTER X THE THREE-LEGGED DOE AND THE BLIND BUCK

CHAPTER XI THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT

CHAPTER XII EL TIGRE

CHAPTER XIII BUNKERED

CHAPTER XIV THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED

CHAPTER XV DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM

CHAPTER XVI A MODERN COEUR-DE-LION

CHAPTER I

LOVING'S BEND

From San Antonio to Fort Griffin, Joe Loving's was a name to conjurewith in the middle sixties. His tragic story is still told and retoldaround camp-fires on the Plains. 

One of the thriftiest of the pioneer cow-hunters, he was the first torealize that if he would profit by the fruits of his labor he must pushout to the north in search of a market for his cattle. The Indianagencies and mining camps of northern New Mexico and Colorado, and theMormon settlements of Utah, were the first markets to attractattention. The problem of reaching them seemed almost hopeless ofsolution. Immediately to the north of them the country was tracklessand practically unknown. The only thing certain about it was that itswarmed with hostile Indians. What were the conditions as to water andgrass, two prime essentials to moving herds, no one knew. To be sure, the old overland mail road to El Paso, Chihuahua, and Los Angeles ledout west from the head of the Concho to the Pecos; and once on thePecos, which they knew had its source indefinitely in the north, apracticable route to market should be possible. 

But the trouble was to reach the Pecos across the ninety interveningmiles of waterless plateau called the _Llano Estacado_, or StakedPlain. This plain was christened by the early Spanish explorers who, looking out across its vast stretches, could note no landmark, and leftbehind them driven stakes to guide their return. An elevated tablelandaveraging about one hundred miles wide and extending four hundred milesnorth and south, it presents, approaching anywhere from the east or thewest, an endless line of sharply escarped bluffs from one hundred totwo hundred feet high that with their buttresses and re-entrant angleslook at a distance like the walls of an enormous fortified town. Andindeed it possesses riches well worth fortifying. 

While without a single surface spring or stream from Devil's River inthe south to Yellow House Cañon in the north, this great mesa isnevertheless the source of the entire stream system of central andsouth Texas. Absorbing thirstily every drop of moisture that fallsupon its surface, from its deep bosom pours a vitalizing flood thatmakes fertile and has enriched an empire, --a flood without which Texas, now producing one-third of the cotton grown in the United States, wouldbe an arid waste. Bountiful to the south and east, it is niggardlyelsewhere, and only two small springs, Grierson and Mescalero, escapefrom its western escarpment. 

A driven herd normally travels only twelve to seventeen miles a day, and even less than this in the early Spring when herds usually arestarted. It therefore seemed a desperate undertaking to enter upon theninety-mile "dry drive, " from the head of the Concho to the HorseheadCrossing of the Pecos, wherein two-thirds of one's cattle were likelyto perish for want of water. 

Joe Loving was the first man to venture it, and he succeeded. Hetraversed the Plain, fought his way up the Pecos, reached a goodmarket, and returned home in the Autumn, bringing a load of gold andstories of hungry markets in the north that meant fortunes for Texasranchmen. This was in 1866. It was the beginning of the great "Texastrail drive, " which during the next twenty years poured six millioncattle into the plains and mountains of the Northwest. Of this greatindustrial movement, Joe Loving was the pioneer. 

At this time Fort Sumner, situated on the Pecos about four hundredmiles above Horsehead Crossing, was a large Government post, and theagency of the Navajo Indians, or such of them as were not on thewar-path. Here, on his drive in the Summer of 1867, Loving made acontract for the delivery at the post the ensuing season of two herdsof beeves. His partner in this contract was Charles Goodnight, laterfor many years the proprietor of the Palo Duro ranch in the Pan Handle. 

Loving and Goodnight were young then; they had helped to repel many aComanche assault upon the settlements, had participated in many abloody raid of reprisal, had more than once from the slight shelter ofa buffalo-wallow successfully defended their lives, and so they enteredupon their work with little thought of disaster. 

Beginning their round-up early in March as soon as green grass began torise, selecting and cutting out cattle of fit age and condition, by theend of the month they reached the head of the Concho with two herds, each numbering about two thousand head. Loving was in charge of oneherd and Goodnight of the other. 

Each outfit was composed of eight picked cowboys, well drilled in therude school of the Plains, a "horse wrangler, " and a cook. To eachrider was assigned a mount of five horses, and the loose horses weredriven with the herd by day and guarded by the "horse wrangler" bynight. The cook drove a team of six small Spanish mules hitched to amess wagon. In the wagon were carried provisions, consistingprincipally of bacon and jerked beef, flour, beans, and coffee; themen's blankets and "war sacks, " and the simple cooking equipment. Beneath the wagon was always swung a "rawhide"--a dried, untanned, unscraped cow's hide, fastened by its four corners beneath the wagonbed. This rawhide served a double purpose: first, as a carryall forodds and ends; and second, as furnishing repair material for saddlesand wagons. In it were carried pots and kettles, extra horseshoes, farriers' tools, and firewood; for often long journeys had to be madeacross country which did not furnish enough fuel to boil a pot ofcoffee. On the sides of the wagon, outside the wagon box, weresecurely lashed the two great water barrels, each supplied with aspigot, which are indispensable in trail driving. Where, as in thisinstance, exceptionally long dry drives were to be made other waterkegs were carried in the wagons. 

Such wagons were rude affairs, great prairie schooners, hooded incanvas to keep out the rain. Some of them were miracles of patchwork, racked and strained and broken till scarcely a sound bit of iron orwood remained, but, all splinted and bound with strips of the cowboy'sindispensable rawhide, they wabbled crazily along, with many a shriekand groan, threatening every moment to collapse, but always holdingtogether until some extraordinary accident required the application ofnew rawhide bandages. I have no doubt there are wagons of this sort inuse in Texas to-day that went over the trail in 1868. 

The men need little description, for the cowboy type has been madefamiliar by Buffalo Bill's most truthful exhibitions of plains life. Lean, wiry, bronzed men, their legs cased in leather chaparejos, withsmall boots, high heels, and great spurs, they were, despite theirloose, slouchy seat, the best rough-riders in the world. 

Cowboy character is not well understood. Its most distinguishing traitwas absolute fidelity. As long as he liked you well enough to takeyour pay and eat your grub, you could, except in very rare instances, rely implicitly upon his faithfulness and honesty. To be sure, if hegot the least idea he was being misused he might begin throwing lead atyou out of the business end of a gun at any time; but so long as heliked you, he was just as ready with his weapons in your defence, nomatter what the odds or who the enemy. Another characteristic traitwas his profound respect for womanhood. I never heard of a cowboyinsulting a woman, and I don't believe any real cowboy ever did. Menwhose nightly talk around the camp-fire is of home and "mammy" are aptto be a pretty good sort. And yet another quality for which he wasremarkable was his patient, uncomplaining endurance of a life ofhardship and privation equalled only among seafarers. Drenched by rainor bitten by snow, scorched by heat or stiffened by cold, he passed itall off with a jest. Of a bitterly cold night he might casually remarkabout the quilts that composed his bed: "These here durned huldys ain'tmuch thicker 'n hen skin!" Or of a hot night: "Reckon ole mammy must'a stuffed a hull bale of cotton inter this yere ole huldy. " Or in apouring rain: "'Pears like ole Mahster's got a durned fool idee we'unsis web-footed. " Or in a driving snow storm: "Ef ole Mahster had to_git rid_ o' this yere damn cold stuff, he might 'a dumped it onfellers what 's got more firewood handy. "

Vices? Well, such as the cowboy had, some one who loves him less willhave to describe. Perhaps he was a bit too frolicsome in town, and tooquick to settle a trifling dispute with weapons; but these things wereinevitable results of the life he led. 

In driving a herd over a known trail where water and grass areabundant, an experienced trail boss conforms the movement of his herdas near as possible to the habit of wild cattle on the range. At dawnthe herd rises from the bed ground and is "drifted" or grazed, withoutpushing, in the desired direction. By nine or ten o'clock they haveeaten their fill, and then they are "strung out on the trail" to water. They step out smartly, two men--one at either side--"pointing" theleaders; and "swing" riders along the sides push in the flanks, untilthe herd is strung out for a mile or more, a narrow, bright, particolored ribbon of moving color winding over the dark green of hilland plain. In this way they easily march off six to nine miles bynoon. When they reach water they are scattered along the stream, drinktheir fill and lie down. Dinner is then eaten, and the boys not onherd doze in the shade of the wagon, until, a little after two o'clock, the herd rise of their own accord and move away, guided by the riders. Rather less distance is made in the afternoon. At twilight the herd isrounded up into a close circular compact mass and "bedded down" for thenight; the first relief of the night guard riding slowly round, singingsoftly and turning back stragglers. If properly grazed, in less than ahalf-hour the herd is quiet and at rest; and, barring an occasionalwild or hungry beast trying to steal away into the darkness, so theylie till dawn unless stampeded by some untoward incident. 

Every two or three hours a new "relief" is called and the night guardchanged. Round and round all night ride the guards, jingling theirspurs and droning some low monotonous song, recounting through endlessstanzas the fearless deeds of some frontier hero, or humming some loveditty rather too passionate for gentle ears. 

But when a ninety-mile drive across the Staked Plain is to be done, allthis easy system is changed. In order to make the journey at all thepace must be forced to the utmost, and the cattle kept on their legsand moving as long as they can stand. 

Therefore, when Loving and Goodnight reached the head of the Concho, two full days' rest were taken to recuperate the "drags, " or weakercattle. Then, late one afternoon, after the herd had been well grazedand watered, the water barrels and kegs filled, the herd was thrown onthe trail and driven away into the west, without halt or rest, throughout the night. Thus, driving in the cool of the night and ofthe early morning and late evening, resting through the heat of middaywhen travel would be most exhausting, the herd was pushed on westwardfor three nights and four days. 

On these dry drives the horses suffer most, for every rider is forced, in his necessary daily work, to cover many times the distance travelledby the herd, and therefore the horses, doing the heaviest work, arerefreshed by an occasional sip of the precious contents of the waterbarrels--as long as it lasts. By night of the second day of this driveevery drop of water is consumed, and thereafter, with tongues parchedand swollen by the clouds of dust raised by the moving multitude, thin, drawn, and famished for water, men, horses, and cattle push madly ahead. 

Come at last within fifteen miles of the Pecos, even the leaders, thestrongest of the herd, are staggering along with dull eyes and droopingheads, apparently ready to fall in their tracks. Suddenly the wholeappearance of the cattle changes; heads are eagerly raised, earspricked up, eyes brighten; the leaders step briskly forward and breakinto a trot. Cow-hunters say they smell the water. Perhaps they do, or perhaps it is the last desperate struggle for existence. Anyway, the tide is resistless. Nothing can check them, and four men gallop inthe lead to control and handle them as much as possible when they reachthe stream. Behind, the weaker cattle follow at the best pace theycan. In this way over the last stage a single herd is strung out overa length of four or five miles. 

Great care is needed when the stream is reached to turn them in at easywaterings, for in their maddened state they would bowl over one anotherdown a bluff of any height; and they often do so, for men and horsesare almost equally wild to reach the water, and indifferent how theyget there. 

However, the Pecos was reached and the herds watered with comparativelysmall losses, and both Loving's and Goodnight's outfits lay at rest forthree days to recuperate at Horsehead Crossing. Then the drive up thewide, level valley of the Pecos was begun, through thickets of_tornilla_ and _mesquite_, horses and cattle grazing belly-deep in thetall, juicy _zacaton_. 

The perils of the _Llano Estacado_ were behind them, but they were nowin the domain of the Comanche and in hourly danger of ambush or openattack. They found a great deal of Indian "sign, " their trails andcamps; but the "sign" was ten days or two weeks old, which left groundfor hope that the war parties might be out on raids in the east orsouth. After travelling four days up the Pecos without encounteringany fresh "sign, " they concluded that the Indians were off on someforay; therefore it was decided that Loving might with reasonablesafety proceed ahead of the herds to make arrangements at Fort Sumnerfor their delivery, provided he travelled only by night, and lay inconcealment during the day. 

In Loving's outfit were two brothers, Jim and Bill Scott, who hadaccompanied his two previous Pecos drives, and were his mostexperienced and trusted men. He chose Jim Scott for his companion onthe dash through to Fort Sumner. When dark came, Loving mounted afavourite mule, and Jim his best horse; then, each well armed with aHenry rifle and two six-shooters, with a brief "So long, boys!" toGoodnight and the men, they trotted off up the trail. Riding rapidlyall night, they hid themselves just before dawn in the rough hillsbelow Pope's Crossing, ate a snack, and then slept undisturbed tillnightfall. As soon as it was good dusk they slipped down a ravine tothe river, watered their mounts, and resumed the trail to the north. This night also was uneventful, except that they rode into, and roused, a great herd of sleeping buffalo, which ran thundering away over thePlain. 

Dawn came upon them riding through a level country about fifteen milesbelow the present town of Carlsbad, without cover of any sort to servefor their concealment through the day. They therefore decided to pushon to the hills above the mouth of Dark Cañon. Here was their mistake. Had they ridden a mile or two to the west of the trail and dismountedbefore daylight, they probably would not have been discovered. It wasmadness for two men to travel by day in that country, whether freshsign had been seen or not. But, anxious to reach a hiding place whereboth might venture to sleep through the day, they pressed on up thetrail. And they paid dearly the penalty of their foolhardiness. 

Other riders were out that morning, riders with eyes keen as a hawk's, eyes that never rested for a moment, eyes set in heads cunning as foxesand cruel as wolves. A war party of Comanches was out and on the moveearly, and, as is the crafty Indian custom, was riding out of sight inthe narrow valley below the well-rounded hills that lined the river. But while hid themselves, their scouts were out far ahead, creepingalong just beneath the edge of the Plain, scanning keenly its broadstretches, alert for quarry. And they soon found it. 

Loving and Jim hove in sight!

To be sure they were only two specks in the distance, but the trainedeyes of these savage sleuths quickly made them out as horsemen, andwhite men. 

Halting for the main war party to come up, they held a brief council ofwar, which decided that the attack should be delivered two or threemiles farther up the river, where the trail swerved in to within a fewhundred yards of the stream. So the scouts mounted, and the war partyjogged leisurely northward and took stand opposite the bend in thetrail. 

On came Loving and Jim, unwarned and unsuspecting, their animals jadedfrom the long night's ride. They reached the bend. And just as Jim, pointing to a low round hill a quarter of a mile to the west of them, remarked, "Thar'd be a blame good place to stan' off a bunch o'Injuns, " they were startled by the sound of thundering hoofs off ontheir right to the east. Looking quickly round they saw a sight tomake the bravest tremble. 

Racing up out of the valley and out upon them, barely four hundredyards away, came a band of forty or fifty Comanche warriors, crouchinglow on their horses' withers, madly plying quirt and heel to urge theirmounts to their utmost speed. 

Their own animals worn out, escape by running was hopeless. Cover mustbe sought where a stand could be made, so they whirled about andspurred away for the hill Jim had noted. Their pace was slow at thebest. The Indians were gaining at every jump and had opened fire, andbefore half the distance to the hill was covered a ball broke Loving'sthigh and killed his mule. As the mule pitched over dead, providentially he fell on the bank of a buffalo-wallow--a circulardepression in the prairie two or three feet deep and eight or ten feetin diameter, made by buffalo wallowing in a muddy pool during the rains. 

Instantly Jim sprang to the ground, gave his bridle to Loving, who layhelpless under his horse, and turned and poured a stream of lead out ofhis Henry rifle that bowled over two Comanches, knocked down one horse, and stopped the charge. 

While the Indians temporarily drew back out of range, Jim pulled Lovingfrom beneath his fallen mule, and, using his neckerchief, applied atourniquet to the wounded leg which abated the hemorrhage, and thenplaced him in as easy a position as possible within the shelter of thewallow, and behind the fallen carcass of the mule. Then Jim led hisown horse to the opposite bank of the wallow, drew his bowie knife andcut the poor beast's throat: they were in for a fight to the death, and, outnumbered twenty to one, must have breastworks. As the horsefell on the low bank and Jim dropped down behind him, Loving called outcheerily:

"Reckon we're all right now, Jim, and can down half o' them before theyget us. Hell! Here they come again!"

A brief "Bet yer life, ole man. We'll make 'em settle now, " was theonly reply. 

Stripped naked to their waist-cloths and moccasins, with faces paintedblack and bronze, bodies striped with vermilion, with curling buffalohorns and streaming eagle feathers for their war bonnets, no warriorsever presented a more ferocious appearance than these chargingComanches. Their horses, too, were naked except for the bridle and ahair rope loosely knotted round the barrel over the withers. 

On they came at top speed until within range, when with that wonderfuldexterity no other race has quite equalled, each pushed his bent rightknee into the slack of the hair rope, seized bridle and horse's mane inthe left hand, curled his left heel tightly into the horse's flank, anddropped down on the animal's right side, leaving only a hand and a footin view from the left. Then, breaking the line of their charge, thewhole band began to race round Loving's entrenchment in single file, firing beneath their horses' necks and gradually drawing nearer as theycircled. 

Loving and Jim wasted no lead. Lying low behind their breastworksuntil the enemy were well within range, they opened a fire that knockedover six horses and wounded three Indians. Balls and arrows wereflying all about them, but, well sheltered, they remained untouched. The fire was too hot for the Comanches and they again withdrew. 

Twice again during the day the Indians tried the same tactics with nobetter result. Later they tried sharpshooting at long range, to whichLoving and Jim did not even reply. At last, late in the afternoon, they resorted to the desperate measure of a direct charge, hoping toride over and shoot down the two white men. Up they came at a dead runfive or six abreast, the front rank firing as they ran. But, badlyexposed in their own persons, the fire from the buffalo-wallow madesuch havoc in their front ranks that the savage column swerved, broke, and retreated. 

Night shut down. Loving and Jim ate the few biscuits they had bakedand some raw bacon. Then they counselled with one another. Theirthirst was so great, it was agreed they must have water at any cost. They knew the Indians were unlikely to attempt another attack untildawn, and so they decided to attempt to reach the stream shortly aftermidnight. Although it was scarcely more than fifteen hundred yards, that was a terrible journey for Loving. Compelled to crawl noiselesslyto avoid alarming the enemy, Jim could give him little assistance. Butgoing slowly, dragging his shattered leg behind him without a murmur, Loving followed Jim, and they reached the river safely and drank. 

It was now necessary to find new cover. For long distances the banksof the Pecos are nearly perpendicular, and ten to twenty feet high. Atflood the swift current cuts deep holes and recesses in these banks. Prowling along the margin of the stream, Jim found one of theserecesses wide enough to hold them both, and deep enough to afford gooddefence against a fire from the opposite shore, Above them the bankrose straight for twenty feet. Thus they could not be attacked byfiring, except from the other side of the river; and while the streamwas only thirty yards wide, the opposite bank afforded no shelter forthe enemy. 

In the gray dawn the Indians crept in on the first entrenchment andsprang inside the breastworks with upraised weapons, only to find itdeserted. However, the trail of Loving's dragging leg was plain, andthey followed it down to the river, where, coming unexpectedly in rangeof the new defences, two of their number were killed outright. 

Throughout the day they exhausted every device of their savage cunningto dislodge Loving, but without avail. They soon found the oppositebank too exposed and dangerous for attack from that direction. Burningbrush dropped from above failed to lodge before the recess, as they hadhoped it might. The position seemed impregnable, so they surroundedthe spot, resolved to starve the white men out. 

Loving and Jim had leisure to discuss their situation. Loving waslosing strength from his wound. They had no food but a little rawbacon. Without relief they must inevitably be starved out. It wastherefore agreed that Jim should try to reach Goodnight and bring aid. It was a forlorn hope, but the only one. The herds must be at leastsixty miles back down the trail. Jim was reluctant to leave, butLoving urged it as the only chance. 

As soon as it was dark, Jim removed all but his under-clothing, hunghis boots round his neck, slid softly into the river, and floated andswam down stream for more than a quarter of a mile. Then he crept outon the bank. On the way he had lost his boots, which more than doubledthe difficulty and hardship of his journey. Still he struck bravelyout for the trail, through cactus and over stones. He travelled allnight, rested a few hours in the morning, resumed his tramp in theafternoon, and continued it well-nigh through the second night. 

Near morning, famished and weak, with feet raw and bleeding, totallyunable to go farther, Jim lay down in a rocky recess two or threehundred yards from the trail, and went to sleep. 

It chanced that the two outfits lay camped scarcely a mile farther downthe trail. At dawn they were again _en route_, and both passed Jimwithout rousing or discovering him. Then a strange thing happened. Three or four horses had strayed away from the "horse wrangler" duringthe night, and Jim's brother Bill was left behind to hunt them. Circling for their trail, he found and followed it, followed it untilit brought him almost upon the figure of a prostrate man, nearly naked, bleeding, and apparently dead. Dismounting and turning the body over, Bill was startled to find it to be his brother Jim. With greatdifficulty Jim was roused; he was then helped to mount Bill's horse, and hurried on to overtake the outfit. Coffee and a little foodrevived him so that he could tell his story. 

Neither danger nor property was considered where help was needed, inthose days. Goodnight instantly ordered six men to shift saddles totheir strongest horses, left the outfits to get on as best they might, and spurred away with his little band to his partner's relief. 

Loving had a close call the day after Jim left. The Comanches hadother plans to carry out, or perhaps they were grown impatient. In anyevent, they crossed the river and raced up and down the bluff, firingbeneath their horses' necks. It was a miracle Loving was not hit; but, lying low and watching his chance, he returned such a destructive firethat the Comanches were forced to draw off. The afternoon passedwithout alarm. As a matter of fact, the remaining Comanches had givenup the siege as too dear a bargain, and had struck off southwest towardGuadalupe Peak. 

When night came, Loving grew alarmed over his situation. Jim might betaken and killed. Then no chance would remain for him where he lay. He must escape through the Indians and try to reach the trail at thecrossing in the big bend four miles north. Here his own outfits mightreach him in time. Therefore, he started early in the night, draggedhimself painfully up the bluff, and reached the plain. He might havelain down by the trail near by; but supposing the Comanches stillabout, he set himself the task of reaching the big bend. 

Starving, weak from loss of blood, his shattered thigh compelling himto crawl, words cannot describe the horror of this journey. But hesucceeded. Love of life carried him through. And so, late the nextafternoon, the afternoon of the day Goodnight started to his relief, Loving reached the crossing, lay down beneath a mesquite bush near thetrail, and fell into a swoon. Ever since, this spot has been known asLoving's Bend. It is half a mile below the present town of Carlsbad. 

At dusk of the evening on which Loving reached the ford, a large partyof Mexican freighters, travelling south from Fort Sumner to FortStockton, arrived and pitched their camp near where he lay But Lovingdid not hear them. He was far into the dark valley and within the veryshadow of Death. Help must come to him; he could not go to it. Luckily it came. 

While some were unharnessing the teams, others wert out to fetchfirewood. In the darkness one Mexican, thinking he saw a big mesquiteroot, seized it and gave a tug. It was Loving's leg. Startled andfrightened, the Mexican yelled to his mates:

"_Que vienen, hombres! Que vienen por el amor de Dios! Aqui esta unmuerto. _"

Others came quickly, but it was not a dead man they found, as theirmate had called. Dragged from under the mesquite and carried to thefire, Loving was found still breathing. The spark of life was verylow, however, and the mescal given him as a stimulant did not serve torouse him from his stupor. But the next morning, rested somewhat fromhis terrible hardships and strengthened by more mescal, he was able totake some food and tell his story. The Mexicans bathed and dressed hiswound as well as they could, and promised to remain in camp until hisfriends should come up. 

Before noon Goodnight and his six men galloped in. They had reachedhis entrenchment that morning, guided by the Indian sign around aboutit, and had discovered and followed his trail. Goodnight hired a partyof the Mexicans to take one of their _carretas_ and convey Lovingthrough to Fort Sumner. With the Fort still more than two hundredmiles away, there was small hope he could survive the journey, but itmust be tried. A rude hammock was improvised and slung beneath thecanvas cover of the carreta, and, placed within it, Loving was made ascomfortable as possible. After a nine days' forced march, made chieflyby night, the Mexicans brought their crazy old carreta safely into thepost. 

While with rest and food Loving had been gaining in strength, the heatand the lack of proper care were telling badly on his wound. Goodnighthad returned to the outfits, and, after staying with them a week, hehad brought them through as far as the Rio Penasco without furthermishap. Then placing the two herds in charge of the Scott brothers, hehimself made a forced ride that brought him into Sumner only one daybehind Loving. 

Goodnight found his partner's condition critical. Gangrene hadattacked the wound. It was apparent that nothing but amputation of thewounded leg could save him. The medical officer of the post was outwith a scouting cavalry detail, and only a hospital steward wasavailable for the operation. To trust the case to this man'sinexperience seemed murder. Therefore, Goodnight decided to send arider through to Las Vegas, the nearest point where a surgeon could beobtained. 

Here arose what seemed insuperable difficulties. From Fort Sumner toLas Vegas the distance is one hundred and thirty miles. Much travelledby freight teams carrying government supplies, the road was infestedthroughout with hostile Navajos, for whom the freight trains were therichest spoils they could have. Offer what he would, Goodnight couldfind no one at the Fort bold enough to ride through alone and fetch asurgeon. He finally raised his offer to a thousand dollars for any onewho would make the trip. It was a great prize, but the danger wasgreater than the prize. No one responded. To go himself wasimpossible; their contract must be fulfilled. 

At this juncture a hero appeared. His name was Scot Moore. Moore wasthe contractor then furnishing wood and hay to the post. Coming infrom one of his camps and learning of the dilemma, himself a friend ofLoving, he instantly went to Goodnight. 

"Charlie, " he said, "why in the world did you not send for me before?Joe shall not die here like a dog if I can save him. I've got a youngKentucky saddle mare here that's the fastest thing on the Pecos. I'llbe in Vegas by sun-up to-morrow morning, and I'll be back here sometimeto-morrow night with a doctor, if the Navajos don't get us. Pay? Paybe damned. I'm doin' it for old Joe; he'd go for me in a minute. IfI'm not back by nine o'clock to-morrow night, Charlie, send anothermessenger and just tell old Joe that Scot did his best. "

"It's mighty good of you, Scot, " replied Goodnight, "I never willforget it, nor will Joe. You know I'd go myself if I could. "

"That's all right, pardner, " said Scot. "Just come over to my camp aspell and look over some papers I want you to attend to if I don't showup. "

And they strolled away. Officers and other bystanders shook theirheads sadly. 

"Devilish pity old Scot had to come in. "

"Might 'a known nobody could hold him from goin'. "

"He'll make Vegas all right in a night run if the mare don't give out, but God help him when he starts back with a doctor in a wagon; ain'tone chance in a thousand he'll got through. "

"Well, if any man on earth can make it, bet your _alce_ Scot will. "

These were some of the comments. Scot Moore was known and loved fromChihuahua to Fort Lyon. One of the biggest-hearted, most amiable andgenerous of men, ha was known as the coolest and most utterly fearlessin a country where few men were cowards. 

At nightfall, the mare well fed and groomed and lightly saddled, Scotmounted, bearing no arms but his two pistols, called a careless "_Hastaluego, amigos_" to his friends, and trotted off up the road. For twohours he jogged along easily over the sandy stretches beyond the BosqueRedondo. Then getting out on firmer ground, the mare well warmed, hegave her the rein and let her out into a long, low, easy lope thatscored the miles off famously. And so he swept on throughout thenight, with only brief halts to cool the mare and give her a mouthfulof water, through Puerta de Luna, past the Cañon Pintado, up the RioGallinas, past sleeping freighters' camps and Mexican _placitas_. Twice he was fired upon by alarmed campers who mistook him for a savagemarauder, but luckily the shots flew wild. 

The last ten miles the noble mare nearly gave out, but, a friend's lifethe stake he was riding for, Scot's quirt and spurs lifted her through. 

Half an hour after sunrise, before many in the town were out of bed, Scot rode into the plaza of Las Vegas and turned out the doctor, whomhe knew. 

Dr. D---- was no coward by any means, but it took all Scot's eloquenceand persuasiveness to induce him to consent to hazard a daylightjourney through to Sumner, for he well knew its dangers. Scarcely aweek passed without news of some fearful massacre or desperate defence. But, stirred by Scot's own heroism or perhaps tempted by the heavy feeto be earned, he consented. 

Having breakfasted and gotten the best team in town hitched to a lightbuckboard, Scot and the doctor were rolling away into the south on theSumner trail before seven o'clock, over long stretches of level grassymesa and past tall black volcanic buttes. 

Driving on without interruption or incident, shortly after noon theyapproached the head of the Arroyo de los Enteros, down which the traildescended to the lower levels of the great Pecos Valley. Enteros Cañonis about three miles long, rarely more than two hundred yards wide, itssides rocky, precipitous, and heavily timbered, through which wound thewagon trail, exposed at every point to a perfect ambuscade. It was themost dreaded stretch of the Vegas-Sumner road, but Scot and the doctordrew near it without a misgiving, for no sign of the savage enemy hadthey seen. 

Just before reaching the head of the cañon, the road wound round a highbutte. Bowling rapidly along, Scot half dozing with fatigue, thedoctor, unused to the plains, alert and watchful, they suddenly turnedthe hill and came out upon the immediate head of the cañon, whensuddenly the doctor cried, seizing Scot's arm:

"Good God, Scott, look! For God's sake, look!"

And it was time. There on either hand, to their right and to theirleft, tied by their lariats to drooping _piñon_ bough, stood fifty orsixty Navajo ponies. The ponies were bridled and saddled. Upon somewere tied lances and on others arms. All were dripping with sweat andheaving of flank, their knife-marked ears drooping with fatigue; notmore than five minutes could have elapsed since their murderous ridershad left them. Apparently it was an ambush laid for them, and theywere already surrounded. Even the cool Scot shook himself in surpriseto find that he was still alive. 

Overcome with terror, the doctor cried: "Turn, Scot! Turn, forHeaven's sake! It's our only chance to pull for Vegas. "

But Scot had been reflecting. With wits sharpened by a thousand perilsand trained in scores of desperate encounters, he answered: "Doc, you're wrong; dead wrong. We're safe as if we were in Fort Union. Ifthey were laying for us we'd be dead now. No, they are after biggergame. They have sighted a big freight outfit coming up from the Pecos, and are laying for that in the cañon. We can slide through withoutseeing a buck or hearing a shot. We'll go right on down Entoros, oldboy. "

"Scot, you're crazy, " said the doctor. "I will not go a step. Let'srun for Vegas. Any instant we may be attacked. Why, damn your foolsoul, they've no doubt got a bead on us this minute. "

With a sharp stroke of his whip, Scot started the team into a smarttrot down into the cañon. Then he turned to the doctor and quietlyanswered: "Doc, you seem to forget that Joe Loving is dying, and that I_promised_ to fetch you. Reckon you'll have to go!" And down theywent into what seemed the very jaws of death. 

But Scot was right. It was a triumph of logic. The Navajos wereindeed lying for bigger game. 

And so it happened that, come safely through the cañon, out two mileson the plain they met a train off eight freight teams travelling towardVegas. They stopped and gave the freighters warning, told what theyhad seen, begged them to halt and corral their wagons. But it was nouse. The freighters thought themselves strong enough to repel anyattack, and drove on into the cañon. 

None of them came out. 

And to this day the traveller through Enteros may see pathetic evidenceof their foolhardiness in a scattered lot of weather-worn and rustedwheel tires and hub bands. 

Before midnight Scot and the doctor reached Sumner, having changedteams twice at Mexican _placitas_. Covering two hundred and sixtymiles in less than thirty hours, Scot Moore had kept his word!Unhappily, however, Joe Loving had become so weak that he died underthe shock of the operation. 

Now Scot Moore himself is dead and gone, but the memory of his heroicride should live as long as noble deeds are sung. 

CHAPTER II

A COW-HUNTERS' COURT

The recent death of Shanghai Rhett, at Llano, Texas, makes another holein the rapidly thinning ranks of the pioneer Texas cow-hunters. Cow-hunting in early days was the industry upon which many of thegreatest fortunes of the State were founded, and from it sprang thegreat cattle-ranch industry that between the years 1866 and 1885converted into gold the rich wild grasses of the tenantless plains andmountains of Texas, New Mexico, the Indian Territory, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Dakota, and Montana. 

The economic value of this great industrial movement in promoting thesettlement and development of that vast region of the West lyingbetween the ninety-eighth and one hundred and twentieth meridians, andembracing half the total area of the United States, is comprehended byfew who were not personally familiar with the conditions of its riseand progress. There can be no question that the ranch industryhastened the occupation and settlement of the Plains by at least thirtyyears. Farming in those wilds was then an impossibility. Remote fromrailways, unmapped, and untrod by white men, it was under the sway ofhostile Indians, before whose attacks isolated farming settlements, with houses widely scattered, would have been defenceless, --alike intheir position and in their inexperience in Indian warfare. Then, moreover, there was neither a market nor means of transportation or thefarmer's product. All these conditions the Texas cow-hunters changed, and they did it in little more than a decade. 

In Texas were bred the leaders and the rank and file of that great armyof cow-hunters whose destiny it was to become the pioneers of this vastregion. Pistol and knife were the treasured toys of their childhood;they were inured to danger and to hardship; they were expert horsemen, trained Indian-fighters, reckless of life but cool in its defence; andthus they were an ideal class for the pacification of the Plains. 

Shanghai Rhett's death removed one of the comparatively few survivorsof this most interesting and eventful past. 

In Texas after the war, when Shang was young, a pony, a lariat, asix-shooter, and a branding iron were sufficient instruments for theacquisition of wealth. A trained eye and a practised hand werenecessary for the effective use of pistol and lariat; the running ironanybody could wield; therefore, while a necessary feature of equipment, the iron was a secondary affair. The pistol was useful in settlingannoying questions of title; the horse and the lariat, in takingpossession after title was settled; the iron, in marking the propertywith a symbol of ownership. The property in question was always cattle. 

Before the war, cattle were abundant in Texas. Fences were few. Therefore, the cattle roamed at will over hill and plain. To determineownership each owner adopted a distinctive "mark and brand. " Theowner's mark and brand were put upon the young before they left theirmothers, and upon grown cattle when purchases were made. Thus thebroad sides and quarters of those that changed hands many times werecovered over with this barbarous record of their various transfers. 

The system of marking and branding had its origin among the Mexicans. Marking consists in cutting the ears or some part of the animal's hidein such a way as to leave a permanent distinguishing mark. One ownerwould adopt the "swallow fork, " a V-shaped piece cut out of the tip ofthe ear; another, the "crop, " the tip of the ear cut squarely off;another, the "under-half crop, " the under half of the tip of the earcut away; another, the "over-half crop, " the reverse of the last;another, the "under-bit, " a round nick cut in the lower edge of theear; another, the "over-bit, " the reverse of the last; another, the"under-slope, " the under half of the ear removed by cutting diagonallyupward; another, the "over-slope, " the reverse of the last; another, the "grub, " the ear cut off close to the head; another, the "wattle, " astrip of the hide an inch wide and two or three inches long, either onforehead, shoulder, or quarters, skinned and left hanging by one end, where before healing it leaves a conspicuous lump; another, the"dewlap, " three or four inches of the loose skin under the throatskinned down and left hanging. 

Branding consists in applying a red-hot iron to any part of the animalfor six or eight seconds, until the hide is seared. Properly done, hair never again grows on the seared surface and the animal is "brandedfor life. " A small five-inch brand on a young calf becomes a greattwelve-to-eighteen-inch mark by the time the beast is fully grown. 

In Mexico the art of branding dates back to the time when few men werelettered and most men used a _rubrica_ mark or flourish instead of awritten signature. Thus, in Mexico the brand is always a device, whatever complex combination of lines and circles the whim of the ownermay conceive. In this country the brand was usually a combination ofletters or numerals, though sometimes shapes and forms are represented. Branding and marking cattle and horses is certainly a most cruelpractice, but under the old conditions of the open range, whereindividual ownerships numbered thousands of head, no other meansexisted of contradistinguishing title. 

During the war these vast herds grew and increased unattended, neglected by owners, who were in the field with the armies of theConfederacy. So it happened that hundreds of thousands of cattleranged the plains of Texas after the war, unmarked and unbranded, wildas the native game, to which no man could establish title. Thissituation afforded an opportunity which the hard-riding and desperatemen who found themselves stranded on this far frontier after the wreckof the Confederacy were quick to seize. Shang Rhett was one of them. From chasing Federal soldiers they turned to chasing unbranded steers, and found the latter occupation no less exciting and much moreprofitable than the former. 

First, bands of free companions rode together and pooled their gains. Then the thrift of some and the improvidence of others set in motionthe immutable laws of distribution. Soon a class of rich and powerfulindividual owners was created, who employed great outfits of ten tofifty men each, splendidly mounted and armed. These outfits were incontinually moving camps, and travelled light, without wagons or tents. The climate being mild even in winter, seldom more than two blankets tothe man were carried for bedding. The cooking paraphernalia wereequally simple, at the most consisting of a coffee pot, a frying-pan, astew kettle, and a Dutch oven. Each man carried a tin cup tied to hissaddle. Plates, knives, and forks were considered unnecessaryluxuries, as every man wore a bowie knife at his belt, and wasdexterous in using his slice of bread as a plate to hold whateverdelicacy the frying-pan or kettle might contain. Sometimes even theDutch oven was dispensed with, and bread was baked by winding thinrolls of dough round a stick and planting the stick in the ground, inclined over a bed of live coals. Often the frying-pan was leftbehind, and the meat roasted on a stick over the fire; and no meat inthe world was ever so delicious as a good fat side of ribs so roasted. 

The wild, unbranded cattle were everywhere--in the cross-timbers of thePalo Pinto, in the hills and among the post oaks of the Concho and theLlano, on the broad savannas of the Lower Guadalupe and the Brazos, inthe plains and mesquite thickets of the Nueces and the Frio. Andthrough these wild regions, on the outer fringe of settlement, rangedthe cow-hunters, as merry and happy a lot as ever courted adventure, careless of their lives. 

Of adventure and hazard the cow-hunters had quite enough to keep theblood tingling. They had to deal with wild men as well as wild cattle. Comanches and Kiowas, the old lords of the manor, were bitterlydisputing every forward movement of the settler along the wholefrontier. No community, from Griffin to San Antonio, escaped theirattacks and depredations. Indeed, these incursions were regularmonthly visitations, made always "in the light of the moon. " A warparty of naked bucks on naked horses, the lightest and most dexterouscavalry in the world, would slip softly near some isolated ranch orlonely camp by night. The cleverest and cunningest would dismount andsteal swiftly in upon their quarry. Slender, sinewy, bronze figurescreeping and crouching like panthers, crafty as foxes, fierce andmerciless as maddened bulls, their presence was rarely known until theblow fell. Sometimes they were content to steal the settlers' horses, and by daylight be many miles away to the west or north. Sometimesthey fired buildings and shot down the inmates as they ran out. Sometimes they crept silently into camps, knifed or tomahawked one ormore of the sleepers, and stole away, all so noiselessly that otherssleeping near were undisturbed. Sometimes they lay in ambush about acamp till dawn, and then with mad war-whoops charged among the sleeperswith their deadly arrows and tomahawks. 

Against these wily marauders the cow-hunters could never abate theirguard. And it was these same cow-hunters the Indians most dreaded, forthey were tireless on a trail and utterly reckless in attack. It wasnot often the Indians got the best of them, and then only by ambush, oroverwhelming numbers. Better armed, of stouter hearts in a stand-upfight, little bands of these cow-hunters often soundly thrashed warparties out-numbering them ten to one. 

Then it not infrequently fell out that collisions occurred betweenrival outfits of cow-hunters, disputes over territory or cattle, whichled to bitter feuds not settled till one side or the other was killedoff or run out of the country. Battles royal were fought more thanonce in which a score or more of men were killed, wherein the _casusbelli_ was a difference as to the ownership of a brindle steer. 

These men were a law unto themselves. Courts were few and far betweenon the line of the outer settlements. Powder and lead came cheaperthan attorneys' fees, and were, moreover, found to be more effective. Thus the rifle and pistol were almost invariably the cow-hunters' courtof first and last resort for disputes of every nature. Except in rareinstances where there happened to be survivors among the families ofthe original plaintiff and defendant, this form of litigation was neverprolonged or tiresome. When there were any survivors the case was sureto be re-argued. 

Occasionally, of course, in the immediate settlements a case would bebrought to formal trial before a judge and jury. While, as a rule, theprocedure of these courts conformed to the statutes and was formalenough, rather startling informalities sometimes characterized theirsessions. A case in point, of which Shang Rhett was the hero, occurredat Llano. 

At that time the town of Llano could boast of only one building, a bigrough stone house, loop-holed for defence against the Indians. Underthis one roof the enterprising owner assembled a variety of industriesand performed a variety of functions that would dismay the mostversatile man of any older community. Here he kept a general store, operated blacksmith and wheelwright shops, served as post-master, ran ahotel, and sat as justice of the peace. Indeed, he got so much in thehabit of self-reliance in all emergencies, that in more than oneinstance he subjected himself to some criticism by calmly sitting asboth judge and jury in cases wherein he had no jurisdiction. Getting ajury at Llano was no easy task. Often the country for miles aroundmight be scoured without producing a full panel. 

Llano being the county seat, and this the only house in town, itsomewhat naturally from time to time enjoyed temporary distinction as acourt house, when at long intervals the Llano County court met. Theaccommodations, however, were inconveniently limited--so limited infact that on one occasion at least they were responsible for a sadmiscarriage of justice. 

A murder trial was on. One of the earliest settlers, a man well knownand generally liked, had killed a newcomer. It was felt that he hadgiven his victim no chance for his life, else he probably would nothave been brought to trial at all. And even in spite of the prevailingdisapproval, there was an undercurrent of sympathy for him in thecommunity. 

However, court met and the case was called. Several settlers werewitnesses in the case. It was, therefore, considered a remarkable andencouraging evidence of Llano County's growth in population when theDistrict Attorney succeeded in raking together enough men for a jury. At noon of the second day of the trial the evidence was all in, arguments of counsel finished, and the case given to the jury. Theprisoner's case seemed hopeless. A clearly premeditated murder hadbeen proved, against which scarcely any defence was produced. 

Judge, jury, prisoner, and witnesses all had dinner together in the"court-room, " which was always demeaned from its temporary dignity as ahall of justice, to the humble rank of a dining-room as soon as courtadjourned. Directly after dinner the jury withdrew for deliberation, in custody of two bailiffs. 

The house was large, to be sure, but its capacity was already so fartaxed that it could not provide a jury room. It was therefore thecustom of the bailiffs to use as a jury room an open, mossy gladeshaded by a great live oak tree on the farther bank of the Llano, anddistant two or three hundred yards from the court house. Here, therefore, the jury were conducted, the bailiffs retired to somedistance, and discussion of a verdict was begun. In spite of theweight of evidence against him, two or three were for acquittal. Theothers said they were "damned sorry; Jim was a mighty good feller, butit 'peared like they'd have to foller the evidence. " So the discussionpro and con ran on into the mid-afternoon without result. 

It was an intensely hot afternoon, the air close and heavy withhumidity, an hour when all Texans who can do so take a siesta. Judgeand counsel were snoozing peacefully on the gallery of the distantcourt house, and the two bailiffs guarding the "jury room, " overcome byhabit and the heat, were stretched at full length on the ground, snoring in concert. This situation made the opportunity for a friendat court. Shang Rhett was the friend awaiting this opportunity. Stepping lightly out of the brush where he had been concealed, a fewpaces brought him among the jurors. 

"Howdy! boys?" Shang drawled. "Pow'ful hot evenin', ain't it!Moseyin' roun' sort o' lonesome like, I thought mebbe so you fellers 'dbe tired o' talkin' law, an' I'd jes' step over an' pass the time o'day an' give you a rest. "

A rude diplomat, perhaps, Shang was nevertheless a cunning one. Several jurors expressed their appreciation of his sympathy and oneanswered: "Tired o' talkin'! Wall, I reckon so. I'm jes' tireder an'dryer 'n if I'd been tailin' down beef steers all day. My ol' tongue'sbeen a-floppin' till thar ain't nary 'nother flop left in her 'nless Icould git to ile her up with a swaller o' red-eye, an--"regretfully--"I reckon thar ain't no sort o' chanst o' that. "

"Thar ain't, hey?" replied Shang, producing a big jug from the brushnear by. "'Pears like, 'nless I disremember, thar's some red-eye inthis yere jug. "

Upon examination the jug was found to be nearly full; but, passed andrepassed around the "jury room, " it was not long before the jug wasempty, and the jury full. 

Shrewdly seizing the proper moment before the jurors got drunk enoughto be obstinate and combative, Shang made his appeal. "Fellers, " hesaid, "I allows you all knows that Jim's my friend, an' I reckon youcain't say but what he 's been a mighty good friend to more'n one o'you. Course, I know he got terrible out o' luck when he had t' killthis yer Arkinsaw feller. But then, boys, Arkinsawyers don't count fermuch nohow, do they? Pow'ful onery, no account lot, sca'cely fit topractise shootin' at. We fellers ain't a-goin' to lay that up aginJim, air we? We ain't a-goin' to help this yer jack-leg prosecutin'attorney send ol' Jim up. Why, fellers, we knows well enough that airyone o' us might 'a done the same thing ef we'd been out o' luck, likeJim was, in meetin' up with this yer Arkinsawyer afore we'd had ourmornin' coffee. What say, boys? Bein' as how any o' us might be inJim's boots mos' any day, reckon we'll have to turn him loose?"

Shang's pathetic appeal for Jim's life clearly won outright more thanhalf the jury, but there were several who, while their sympathies werewith Jim, "'lowed they'd have to bring a verdic' accordin' to theevidence. "

"Verdic'? Why, fellers, " retorted Jim's advocate, "whar's the use of afool verdic'? 'Sposin' we fellers was goin' to be verdicked? This isa time for us fellers to stan' together, shua'. I'll tell you whatle's do; le's all slip off inter th' brush, cotch our hosses an' pullour freight fer home. This yer court ain't goin' to git airy jury butus in Llano 'till a new one's growed, an' if we skip I reckon they'llhave to turn Jim loose. "

This alternative met all objections. In a moment the "jury room" wasempty. 

Shortly thereafter the two bailiffs, awakened by a clatter of hoofsover the rocky hills behind them, were doubly shocked to find the onlytenant of the "jury room" an empty jug. 

One of the bailiffs sighted some of the escaping jurors and openedfire; the other hastened to alarm the court. The latter, runningtoward the house, met the judge and counsel who had been roused by thefiring, and yelled out: "Jedge, the hull jury's stampeded! Bill'swinged two o' them. Gi' me a fast hoss an' a lariat an' mebbe so I'llcotch some more. "

Two or three jurors who were too much fuddled with drink to saddle andmount were quickly captured. The rest escaped. Of course, the courtwas outraged and indignant, but it was powerless. So Jim was released, thanks to Shang's diplomacy and eloquence. And, by the way, in thedark days that came to ranchmen in 1885, Jim, risen to be a well-knownand powerful banker in ------ City, furnished the ready money necessaryto save Shang's imperilled fortune; and when at length he heard thatShang was at death's door, Jim found the time to leave his largeaffairs and come all the way up from ------ to Llano to bid his oldfriend farewell. 

For two or three years after the war the cow-hunters were busyaccumulating cattle. From Palo Pinto to San Diego great outfits wereworking incessantly, scouring the wilds for unbranded cattle. 

Directly an animal was sighted, one or two of these riders would spurin pursuit, rope him by horns or legs, and throw him to the ground. Then dismounting and springing nimbly upon the prostrate beast, theyquickly fastened the beast's feet with a "hogtie" hitch so that hecould not rise, a fire was built, the short saddle iron heated, and thebeast branded. The feet were then unbound and the cow-hunter made aflying leap into his saddle, and spurred away to escape the infuriatedcharge sure to be delivered by his maddened victim. 

In this work horses were often fatally gored and not a few men losttheir lives. Notwithstanding the fact that it was such a downrightdesperate task, the men became so expert that they did not evenhesitate to tackle, alone and single-handed, great bulls of twice theweight of their small ponies; they roped, held, threw, and brandedthem. The least accident or mistake, a slip of the foot, a stumble byone's horse, a breaking cinch, a failure to maintain full tension onthe lariat, slowness in dismounting to tie an animal or in mountingafter it was untied--any one of these things happening meant death, unless the cow-hunter could save himself with a quick and accurateshot. Indeed the boys so loved this work and were so proud of theirskill, that when an unusually vicious old "mossback" was encountered, each strove to be the first catch and master him. And God knows theyshould have loved it, as must any man with real red blood coursingthrough his veins, for it was not work; I libel it to call it work; itwas rather sport, and the most glorious sport in the world. Riding tohounds over the stiffest country, or hunting grizzly in juniperthickets, is tame beside cow-hunting in the old days. 

The happiest period of my life was my first five years on the range inthe early seventies. Indeed it was a period so happy that memory playsme a shabby trick to recall its incidents and fire me with longings forpleasures I may never again experience. Its scenes are all before menow, vivid as if of yesterday. 

The night camp is made beside a singing stream or a bubbling spring;the night horses are caught and staked; there is a roaring, merry fireof fragrant cedar boughs; a side of fat ribs is roasting on a spitbefore the fire, its sweet juices hissing as they drop into the flames, and sending off odors to drive one ravenous; the rich amber contents ofthe coffee pot is so full of life and strength that it is well-nighbursting the lid with joy over the vitality and stimulus it is to bringyou. Supper eaten, there follow pipe and cigarette, jest and bandinage[Transcriber's note: badinage?] over the day's events; stories andsongs of love, of home, of mother; and rude impromptu epics relatingthe story of victories over vicious horses, wild beasts, or savageIndians. When the fire has burnt low and become a mass of glowingcoals, voices are hushed, the camp is still, and each, half hypnotizedby gazing into the weirdly shifting lights of the dying embers, iswrapped in introspection. Then, rousing, you lie down, your canopy thedark blue vault of the heavens, your mattress the soft, curling buffalograss. After a night of deep refreshing sleep you spring at dawn withevery faculty renewed and tense. Breakfast eaten, you catch a favoriteroping-horse, square and heavy of shoulder and quarter, short of back, with wide nervous nostrils, flashing eyes, ears pointing to theslightest sound, pasterns supple and strong as steel, and of a nerveand temper always reminding you that you are his master only bysufferance. Now begins the day's hunt. Riding softly through cedarbrake or mesquite thicket, slipping quickly from one live oak toanother, you come upon your quarry, some great tawny yellow monsterwith sharp-pointed, wide-spreading horns, standing startled and rigid, gazing at you with eyes wide with curiosity, uncertain whether toattack or fly. Usually he at first turns and runs, and you dash afterhim through timber or over plain, the great loop of your lariatcircling and hissing about your head, the noble horse between yourknees straining every muscle in pursuit, until, come to fit distance, the loop is cast. It settles and tightens round the monster's horns, and your horse stops and braces himself to the shock that may eitherthrow the quarry or cast horse and rider to the ground, helpless, athis mercy. Once he is caught, woe to you if you cannot master and tiehim, for a struggle is on, a struggle of dexterity and intelligenceagainst brute strength and fierce temper, that cannot end till beast orman is vanquished!

Thus were the great herds accumulated in Texas after the war. Butcattle were so abundant that their local value was trifling. Marketshad to be sought. The only outlets were the mining camps and Indianagencies of the Northwest, and the railway construction camps thenpushing west from the Missouri River. So the Texans gathered theircattle into herds of two thousand to three thousand head each, andstruck north across the trackless Plains. Indeed this movement reachedsuch proportions that, excepting in a few narrow mining belts, there isscarcely one of the greater cities and towns between the ninety-eighthand one hundred and twentieth meridians which did not have its originas a supply point for these nomads. Figures will emphasize themagnitude of the movement. The cattle-drive northward from Texasbetween the years 1866 and 1885 was approximately as follows:

 1866 260, 000 1877 201, 000 1867 35, 000 1878 265, 649 1868 75, 000 1879 257, 927 1869 350, 000 1880 394, 784 1870 350, 000 1881 250, 000 1871 600, 000 1882 250, 000 1872 350, 000 1883 265, 000 1873 404, 000 1884 416, 000 1874 166, 000 1885 350, 000 1875 151, 618 --------- 1876 321, 998 Total 5, 713, 976

The range business on a large and profitable scale was long sincepractically done and ended. In Texas there remain very few open rangescapable of turning off fair grass beef. With the good lands farmed andthe poor lands exhausted, the ranges have become narrower every year;and every year the cost of getting fat grass steers has been eatingdeeper and deeper into the rangeman's pocket. Of course, there arestill isolated ranges where the rangemen still hang on, but they arenot many, and most of them must soon fall easy prey to the ploughshare. 

When the rangeman was forced to lease land in Texas, or buy waterfronts in the Territories and build fences, his fate was soon sealed. With these conditions, he soon found that the sooner he reduced hisnumbers, improved his breed, and went on tame feed, the better. A cornshock is now a more profitable close herder than any cowpuncher whoever wore spurs. This is a sad thing for an old rangeman tocontemplate, but it is nevertheless the simple truth. Soon the merrycrack of the six Footer will no more be heard in the land, its wild andwoolly manipulator being driven across the last divide, with faint showof resistance, by an unassuming granger and his all-conquering hoe. 

The rangeman, like many another in the past, has served his purpose andsurvived his usefulness. His work is practically done, and few realizewhat a noble work it has been, or what its cost in hardship and danger. 

I refer, of course, not alone to the development of a great industry, which in its time has added millions to the material wealth of thecountry, but to its collateral results and influence. But for theventuresome rangeman and his rifle, millions of acres, from the Gulf inthe South to Bow River in the far Canadian Northwest, now constitutingthe peaceful, prosperous homes of hundreds of thousands of thriftyfarmers, would have remained for many years longer what it had beenfrom the beginning--a hunting and battle ground for Indians, and a saferetreat for wild game. 

What was the hardship, and what the personal risk with which this greatpioneer work was accomplished, few know except those who had a hand init, and they as a rule, were modest men who thought little of what theydid, and now that it is done, say less. 

CHAPTER III

A SELF-CONSTITUTED EXECUTIONER

Some think it fair to give a man warnin' you intend to kill him onsight, an' then get right down to business as soon as you meet. Butthat ain't no equal chance for both. The man that sees his enemy firsthas the advantage, for the other is sure to be more or less rattled. 

"Others consider it a square deal to stan' back to back with drawnpistols, to walk five paces apart an' then swing and shoot. But eventhis way is open to objections. While both may be equally brave an'determined, one may be blamed nervous, like, an' excitable, while theother is cool and deliberate; one may be a better shot than the other, or one may have bad eyes. 

"I tell you, gentlemen, none o' these deals are fair; they aremurderous. If you want to kill a man in a neat an' gentlemanly waythat will give both a perfectly equal show for life, let both be put ina narrow hole in the ground that they can't git out of, their left armssecurely tied together, their right hands holdin' bowie knives, an' letthem cut, an' cut an' cut till one is down. "

His heavy brow contracted into a fierce frown; his black eyes narrowedand glittered balefully; his surging blood reddened the bronzed cheeks. 

"Let them cut, I say, cut to a finish. That's fightin', an' fightin'dead fair. Ah!" and the hard lines of the scarred face softened into alook of infinite longing and regret, "if only I could find another manwith nerve enough to fight me that way!"

The speaker was Mr. Clay Allison, formerly of Cimarron, later domiciledat Pope's Crossing. His listeners were cowboys. The scene was around-up camp on the banks of the Pecos River near the mouth of RockyArroyo. Mr. Allison was not dilating upon a theory. On the contrary, he was eminently a man of practice, especially in the matters of whichhe was speaking. Indeed he was probably the most expert taker of humanlife that ever heightened the prevailing dull colors of a frontiercommunity. Early in his career the impression became general that hisfavorite tint was crimson. 

And yet Mr. Allison was in no sense an assassin. I never knew him tokill a man whom the community could not very well spare. While engagedas a ranchman in raising cattle, he found more agreeable occupation forthe greater part of his time in thinning out the social weeds that areapt to grow quite too luxuriantly for the general good in new Westernsettlements. His work was not done as an officer of the law either. It was rather a self-imposed task, in which he performed, at least tohis own satisfaction, the double functions of judge and executioner. And in the unwritten code governing his decisions all offences had acommon penalty--death. 

Mr. Allison was born with a passion for fighting, and he indulged thepassion until it became a mania. The louder the bullets whistled, theredder the gleaming blades grew, the more he loved it. 

Yet no knight of old that rode with King Arthur was ever a morechivalrous enemy. He hated a foul blow as much as many of hiscontemporaries loved "to get the drop, " which meant taking youropponent unawares and at hopeless disadvantage. In fact in most caseshe actually carried a chivalry so far as to warn the doomed man, a weekor two in advance, of the precise day and hour when he might expect todie. And as Mr. Allison was known to be most scrupulous in standing tohis word, and as the victim knew there was no chance of a reprieve, this gave him plenty of time to settle up his affairs and to prepare tocross the last divide. Thus the estates of gentlemen who happened toincur Mr. Allison's disapproval were usually left in excellentcondition and gave little trouble to the probate courts. 

Of course the gentlemen receiving these warnings were under noobligations to await Mr. Allison's pleasure. Some suddenly discoveredthat they had imperative business in other and remote parts of thecountry. Others were so anxious to save him unnecessary trouble thatthey frequented trails he was known to travel, and lay sometimes forhours and days awaiting him, making themselves as comfortable aspossible in the meantime behind some convenient boulder or tall nopal, or in the shady recesses of a mesquite thicket. But they might as wellhave saved all this bother, for the result was the same. Mr. Allisoncould always spare the time to journey even from New Mexico to Montanawhere it was necessary to the fulfilment of a promise to do so. 

To those who were impatient and sought him out in advance, he was everobliging and proved ready to meet them where and when and how theypleased. It was all the same to him. To avoid annoying legalcomplications, he was known to have more than once deliberately givenhis opponent the first shot. 

In the early eighties a band of horse rustlers were playing great havocamong the saddle stock in north-eastern New Mexico. It was chieflythrough Mr. Allison's industry and accurate marksmanship that theirnumbers were reduced below a convenient working majority. The leadervowed vengeance on Allison. One day they met unexpectedly in the stageranch at the crossing of the Cimarron. 

Mr. Allison invited the rustler to take a drink. The invitation wasaccepted. It was remarked by the bystanders that while they weredrinking neither seemed to take any especial interest in the brazenpictures that constituted a feature of the Cimarron bar and were thepride of its proprietor. The next manoeuvre in the game was aproposition by Mr. Allison that they retire to the dining-room and havesome oysters. Unable to plead any other engagement to dine, therustler accepted. As they sat down at table, both agreed that theirpistols felt heavy about their waists, and each drew his weapon fromthe scabbard and laid it on his knees. 

While the Cimarron ranch was noted for the best cooking on the trail, other gentlemen at dinner seemed oddly indifferent to its delicacies, nervously gulped down a few mouthfuls and then slipped quietly out ofthe room, leaving loaded plates. 

Presently Mr. Allison dropped a fork on the floor--perhaps byaccident--and bent as if to pick it up. An opening in his enemy'sguard the rustler could not resist: he grabbed the pistol lying in hislap and raised it quickly, but in doing so he struck the muzzle beneaththe edge of the table, causing an instant's delay. It was, however, enough; Allison had pitched sideways to the floor, and, firing beneaththe table, converted a bad rustler into a good one. 

Dodge City used to be one of the hottest places on the Texas trail. Itwas full of thugs and desperadoes of the worst sort, come to prey uponthe hundreds of cowboys who were paid off there. This money had to bekept in Dodge at any cost. Usually the boys were easy game. Whatmoney the saloons failed to get was generally gambled off against bracegames of faro or monte. And those who would neither drink nor playwere waylaid, knocked down, and robbed. 

On one occasion when the Hunter and Evans "Jinglebob" outfits were intown, they objected to some of these enforced levies as unreasonablyheavy. A pitched battle on the streets resulted. Many of the boyswere young and inexperienced, and they were getting quite the worst ofit, when Clay Allison happened along and took a hand. 

The fight did not last much longer. When it was over, it wasdiscovered that several of Dodge's most active citizens had beenremoved from their field of usefulness. For the next day or two, "BootHill" (the local graveyard) was a scene of unusual activity. 

From all this it fell out that a few days later when Clay Allison rodealone out of Dodge returning home, he was ambushed a few miles fromtown by three men and shot from his horse. Crippled too badly toresist, he lay as if dead. Thinking their work well done, the threemen came out of hiding, kicked and cursed him, shot two or three moreholes in him, and rode back to town. But Allison, who had not evenlost consciousness, had recognized them. A few hours later the driverof a passing wagon found him and hauled him into town. After lingeringmany weeks between life and death, Allison recovered. As soon as theyheard that he was convalescing, the three who had attacked him wound uptheir affairs and fled the town. 

When able to travel Allison sold his ranch. Questioned by his friendsas to his plans, he finally admitted that he felt it a duty to huntdown the men who had ambushed him; remarked that he feared they mightbushwhack some one else if they were not removed. 

Number One of the three men he located in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Cheyennewas then a law-abiding community, and Allison could not afford to takeany chances of court complications that would interfere with thecompletion of his work. He therefore spent several days in covertlywatching the habits of his adversary. From the knowledge thus gainedhe was able one morning suddenly to turn a street corner and confrontNumber One. Without the least suspicion that Allison was in thecountry, the man, knowing that his life hung by a thread, jerked hispistol and fired on the instant. As Allison had shrewdly calculated, his enemy was so nervous that his shot flew wild. Number One did notget a second shot. At the inquest several witnesses of the affrayswore that Allison did not even draw until after the other had fired. 

Several weeks later Number Two was found in Tombstone, Arizona, a townof the good old frontier sort that had little use for coroners andjuries, so the fighting was half fair. Half an hour after landing fromthe stagecoach, Allison encountered his man in a gambling-house. Number Two remained in Tombstone--permanently--while Mr. Allisonresumed his travels by the evening coach. 

The hunt for Number Three lasted several months. Allison followed himrelentlessly from place to place through half a dozen States andTerritories, until he was located on a ranch near Spearfish, Dakota. 

They met at last, one afternoon, within the shadow of the Devil'sTower. In the duel that ensued, Allison's horse was killed under him. This occasioned him no particular inconvenience, however, for he foundthat Number Three's horse, after having a few hours' rest, was able tocarry him into Deadwood, where he caught the Sidney stage. 

With this task finished, Mr. Allison was able to return to commercialpursuits. He settled at Pope's Crossing on the Pecos River, in NewMexico, bought cattle, and stocked the adjacent range. Pecos City, thenearest town, lay fifty miles to the south. 

Started as a "front camp" during the construction of the Texas PacificRailway in 1880, for five or six years Pecos contrived to rock alongwithout any of the elaborate municipal machinery deemed essential tothe government and safety of urban communities in the effete East. Ithad neither council, mayor, nor peace officer. An early experiment ingovernment was discouraging. 

In 1883 the Texas Pacific station-agent was elected mayor. His namewas Ewing, a little man with fierce whiskers and mild blue eyes. Twonights after the election a gang of boys from the "Hash Knife" outfitwere in town; fearing circumscription of some of their privileges, theelection did not have their approval. Gleaming out of the darknessfifty yards away from the Lone Wolf Saloon, the light of Mayor Ewing'soffice window offered a most tempting target. What followed was verynatural--in Pecos. 

The Mayor was sitting at his table receiving train orders, whensuddenly a bullet smashed the telegraph key beside his hand and otherballs whistled through the room bearing him a message he had no troublein reading. Rushing out into the darkness, he spent the night in thebrush, and toward morning boarded an east-bound freight train. MayorEwing had abdicated. The railway company soon obtained anotherstation-agent, but it was some years before the town got another mayor. 

On Pecos carnival nights like this, when some of the cowboys were intown, prudent people used to sleep on the floor of Van Slyke's storewith bags of grain piled round their blankets two tiers deep, for noPecos house walls were more than inch boards. 

At this early period of its history the few wandering advance agents ofthe Gospel who occasionally visited Pecos were not well received. Theywere not abused; they were simply ignored. When not otherwiseoccupied, the average Pecosite had too much whittling on hand to findtime to "'tend meetin'"; of this every pine drygoods box in the townbore mute evidence, its fair sides covered with innumerable rudecarvings cut by aimless hands. 

This prevailing indifference to religion shocked Mr. Allison. Asopportunity offered he tried to remedy it, and as far as hisevangelical work went it was successful. One Tuesday morning about teno'clock he walked into the Lone Wolf Saloon, laid two pistols on theend of the bar next the front door, and remarked to Red Dick, thebartender, that he intended to turn the saloon into a church for acouple of hours and did not want any drinks sold or cards thrown duringthe services. 

Taking his stand just within the doorway, pistol in hand, Mr. Allisonbegan to assemble his congregation. The first comer was Billy Jansen, the leading merchant of the town. As he was passing the door Clayremarked:

"Good-mornin', Mr. Jansen, won't you please step inside? Religiousservices will be held here shortly an' I reckon you'll be useful in thechoir. "

The only reply to Billy's protest of urgent business was a gesture thatmade Billy think going to church would be the greatest pleasure hecould have that morning. 

Mr. Allison never played favorites at any game, and so all passers werestopped: merchants, railway men, gamblers, thugs, cowboys, freighters--all were stopped and made to enter the saloon. The leastfurtive movement to draw a gun or to approach the back door receivedprompt attention from the impromptu evangelist that quickly restoredorder in the congregation. When fifty or sixty men had been broughtinto this improvised fold, Mr. Allison closed the door and faced about. 

"Fellers, " he said, "this meetin' bein' held on the Pecos, I reckonwe'll open her by singin' 'Shall We Gather at the River?' Of coursewe're already gathered, but the song sort o' fits. No gammon now, fellers; everybody sings that knows her. "

The result was discouraging. Few in the audience knew any hymn, muchless this one. Only three or four managed to hoarsely drawl throughtwo verses. 

The hymn finished--as far as anybody could sing it--Mr. Allison said:

"Now, fellers, we'll pray. Everybody down!"

Only a few knelt. Among the congregation were some who regarded theaffair as sacrilegious, and others of the independent frontier typewere unaccustomed to dictation. However, a slight narrowing of thecold black eyes and a significant sweep of the six-shooter broughtevery man of them to his knees, with heads bowed over faro lay-outs andon monte tables. 

"O Lord!" began Allison, "this yere's a mighty bad neck o' woods, an' Ireckon You know it. Fellers don' think enough o' their souls to builda church, an' when a pa'son comes here they don' treat him half white. O Lord! make these fellers see that when they gits caught in the finalround-up an' drove over the last divide, they don' stan' no sort o'show to git to stay on the heavenly ranch 'nless they believes an'builds a house to pray an' preach in. Right here I subscribes ahundred dollars to build a church, an' if airy one o' these yerefellers don' tote up accordin' to his means, O Lord, make it Yourpers'n'l business to see that he wears the Devil's brand and ear markan' never gits another drop o' good spring water. 

"Of course, I allow You knows I don' sport no wings myself, but I wantto do what's right ef You'll sort o' give a shove the proper way. An'one thing I want You to understan'; Clay Allison's got a fast horse an'is tol'able handy with his rope, and he's goin' to run these fellersinto Your corral even if he has to rope an' drag 'em there. Amen. Everybody git up!"

While he prayed in the most reverent tone he could command, and whilehis attitude was one of simple supplication, Mr. Allison never removedhis keen eyes from the congregation. 

"Reckon we'll sing again, boys, an' I want a little more of it. Le'ssee what you-all knows. "

At length six or eight rather sheepishly owned knowing "Old Hundred, "and it was sung. 

Then the sermon was in order. 

"Fellers, " he began, "my ole mammy used to tell me that the only showto shake the devil off your trail was to believe everythin' the Biblesays. What yer mammy tells you 's bound to be right, dead right, so Ithink I'll take the sentiment o' this yere round-up on believin'. O'course, as a square man I'm boun' to admit the Bible tells some pow'fulqueer tales, onlike anythin' we-'uns strikes now days. Take that taleabout a fish swallerin' a feller named Jonah; why, a fish 't couldswaller a man 'od have to be as big in the barrel as the Pecos River iswide an' have an openin' in his face bigger'n Phantom Lake Cave. Nobody on the Pecos ever see such a fish. But I wish you fellers todistinctly understan' it's a _fact_. I believes it. Does you? Everyfeller that believes a fish swallered Jonah, hold up his right hand!"

It is sad to have to admit that only two or three hands were raised. 

"Well, I'll be durned, " the evangelist continued, "you _air_ toughcases. That's what's the matter with you; you are shy on faith. Youfellers has got to be saved, an' to be saved you got to believe, an'believe hard, an' I'm agoin' to make you. Now hear _me_, an' mind youdon' forget it's Clay Allison talkin' to you: I tells you that whenthat thar fish had done swallerin' Jonah, he swum aroun' fer a hullhour lookin' to see if thar was a show to pick up any o' Jonah's familyor friends. Now what I tells you I reckon you're all bound to believe. Every feller that believes that Jonah was jes' only a sort of a snackfer the fish, hold up his right hand; an' if any feller don' believeit, this yere ol' gun o' mine will finish the argiment. "

Further exhortation was unnecessary; all hands went up. 

And so the sermon ran on for an hour, a crude homily full of rudemetaphor, with little of sentiment or pleading, severely didactic, mandatory as if spoken in a dungeon of the Inquisition. When Red Dickpassed the hat among the congregation for a subscription to build achurch, the contribution was general and generous. Many who early inthe meeting were full of rage over the restraint, and vowing tothemselves to kill Allison the first good chance they got, finished bythinking he meant all right and had taken about the only practicablemeans "to git the boys to 'tend meetin'. "

In the town of Toyah, twenty miles west of Pecos, a gentleman named JepClayton set the local spring styles in six-shooters and bowie knives, and settled the hash of anybody who ventured to question them. Areckless bully, he ruled the town as if he owned it. 

One day John McCullough, Allison's brother-in-law and ranch foreman, had business in Toyah. Clayton had heard of Allison but knew littleabout him. Drunk and quarrelsome, he hunted up McCullough, called himevery abusive name he could think of before a crowd, and then suggestedthat if he did not like it he might send over his brother-in-lawAllison, who was said to be a gun fighter. A mild and peaceable manhimself, McCullough avoided a difficulty and returned to Pecos. 

Two days later a lone horseman rode into Toyah, stopped at Youngbloods'store, tied his horse, and went in. Approaching the group of loaferscurled up on boxes at the rear of the store, he inquired:

"Can any of you gentlemen tell me if a gentleman named Clayton, JepClayton, is in town, an' where I can find him?"

They replied that he had been in the store an hour before and wasprobably near by. 

As the lone horseman walked out of the door, one the loungers remarked:

"I believe that's Clay Allison, an' ef it is it's all up with Jep. "

He slipped out and gave Jep warning, told him Allison was in town, thathe had known him years before, and that Jep had better quit town or sayhis prayers. Concluding, he said, "You done barked up the wrong treethis time, sure. "

Allison went on from one saloon to another, at each making the samepolite inquiry for Mr. Clayton's whereabouts. At last, out on thestreet Allison met a party of eight men, a crowd Clayton had gathered, and repeated his inquiry. A man stepped out of the group and said: "Myname's Clayton, an' I reckon yours is Allison. Look here, Mr. Allison, this is all a mistake. I----"

"Why, what's a mistake? Didn't you meet Mr. McCullough the other day?"

"Yes. "

"Didn't you abuse him shamefully?"

"Well, yes, but----"

"Didn't you send me an invite to come over here?"

"Well, yes, I did, but it was a mistake, Mr. Allison; I was drunk. Itwas whiskey talkin'; nothin' more. I'm terrible sorry. It was jes'whiskey talk. "

"Whiskey talk, was it? Well, Mr. Clayton, le's step in the saloon hereand get some whiskey an' see if it won't set you goin' again. Ibelieve I'd enjoy hearin' jes' a few words o' your whiskey talk. "

They entered a saloon. For an hour Clayton was plied with whiskey, taunted and jeered until those who had admired him slunk away indisgust, and those who had feared him laughed in enjoyment of hishumiliation. But no amount of whiskey could rouse him that day. 

Allison's scarred, impassive face, low, quiet tones, and glitteringblack eyes held him cowed. The terror of Toyah had found his master, and knew it. 

At last, in utter disgust, Allison concluded:

"Mr. Clayton, your invitation brought me twenty miles to meet a gunfighter. I find you such a cur that if ever we meet again I'll lashyou into strips with a bull whip. "

A month later Mr. Clayton was killed by his own brother-in-law, GrantTinnin, one of the quiet good men of the country, who never failed toscore in any real emergency. 

"I wonder how it will all end!" Allison used often to remark whilelying idly staring into the camp-fire. "Of course I know I can't keepup this sort o' thing; some one's sure to get me. An' I'd jes' giveanything in the world to know _how_ I'm goin to die--by pistol orknife. "

It turned out that Fate had decreed other means for his removal. 

One day Allison and his brother-in-law John McCullough had a seriousquarrel. Allison left the ranch and rode into town to think it over. In his later years killing had become such a mania with him that hisbest friend could never feel entirely safe against his deadly temper;the least difference might provoke a collision. McCullough wastherefore not greatly surprised to get a letter from Allison a few dayslater, sent out by special messenger, telling him that Allison wouldreach the ranch late in the afternoon of the next day and would killhim on sight. 

Early in the morning of the appointed day Allison left town in acovered hack. He had been drinking heavily and had whiskey with him. About half-way between town and the ranch he overtook George Larramore, a freighter, seated out in the sun on top of his heavy load. 

"Hello, George!" called Allison; "mighty hot up there, ain't it?"

"Howd'y, Mr. Allison. I don' mind the heat; I'm used to it, " answeredLarramore. 

"George, " called Allison, after driving on a short distance, "'pears tome the good things o' this world ain't equally divided. I don't seewhy you should sit up there roasting in the sun an' me down here in theshade o' the hack. We'll jes' even things a little right here. Youcrawl down off that load an' jump into the hack an' I'll get up therean' drive your team. "

"Pow'ful good o' you, Mr. Allison, but----"

"Crawl down, I say, George, it's Clay tellin' you!"

And the change was made without further delay. 

Five miles farther up the road John McCullough and two friends lay inambush all that day and far into the night, with ready Winchesters, awaiting Allison. But he never came. 

Shortly after taking his seat on top of the high load in the broilingsun, plodding slowly along in the dust and heat, Allison was noddingdrowsily, when suddenly a protruding mesquite root gave the wagon asharp jolt that plunged Clay headlong into the road, where, before hecould rise, the great wheels crunched across his neck. 

CHAPTER IV

TRIGGERFINGERITIS[1]

On the Plains thirty years ago there were two types of man-killers; andthese two types were subdivided into classes. 

The first type numbered all who took life in contravention of law. This type was divided into three classes: A, Outlaws to whomblood-letting had become a mania; B, Outlaws who killed in defence oftheir spoils or liberty; C, Otherwise good men who had slain in theheat of private quarrel, and either "gone on the scout" or "jumped thecountry" rather than submit to arrest. 

The second type included all who slew in support of law and order. This type included six classes: A, United States marshals; B, Sheriffsand their deputies; C, Stage or railway express guards, called"messengers"; D, Private citizens organized as VigilanceCommittees--these often none too discriminating, and not infrequentlythe blind or willing instruments of individual grudge or greed; E, Unorganized bands of ranchmen who took the trail of marauders on lifeor property and never quit it; F, "Inspectors" (detectives) for StockGrowers' Associations. 

Throughout the seventies and well into the eighties, in Wyoming, Dakota, western Kansas and Nebraska, New Mexico, and west Texas, courtswere idle most of the time, and lawyers lived from hand to mouth. Thethen state of local society was so rudimentary that it had not acquiredthe habit of appeal to the law for settlement of its differences. Andwhile it may sound an anachronism, it is nevertheless the simple truththat while life was far less secure through that period, averagepersonal honesty then ranked higher and depredations against propertywere fewer than at any time since. 

As soon as society had advanced to a point where the victim could berelied on to carry his wrongs to court, judges began working overtimeand lawyers fattening. But of the actual pioneers who took their livesin their hands and recklessly staked them in their everyday goings andcomings (as, for instance, did all who ventured into the Sioux countrynorth of the Platte between 1875 and 1880) few long stayed--no matterwhat their occupation--who were slow on the trigger: it was back toMother Earth or home for them. 

Of the supporters of the law in that period Boone May was one of thefinest examples any frontier community ever boasted. Early in 1876 hecame to Cheyenne with an elder brother and engaged in freighting thenceoverland to the Black Hills. Quite half the length of the stage roadwas then infested by hostile Sioux. This meant heavy risks and highpay. The brothers prospered so handsomely that, toward the end of theyear, Boone withdrew from freighting, bought a few cattle and horses, and built and occupied a ranch at the stage-road crossing of LanceCreek, midway between the Platte and Deadwood, in the very heart of theSioux country. Boone was then well under thirty, graceful of figure, dark-haired, wore a slender downy moustache that served only toemphasize his youth, but possessed that reserve and repose of mannermost typical of the utterly fearless. 

The Sioux made his acquaintance early, to their grief. One night theydescended on his ranch and carried off all the stage horses and most ofBoone's. Although the "sign" showed there were fifteen or twenty inthe party, at daylight Boone took their trail, alone. The third daythereafter he returned to the ranch with all the stolen stock, besidesa dozen split-eared Indian ponies, as compensation for his trouble, taken at what cost of strategy or blood Boone never told. 

Learning of this exploit from his drivers, Al. Patrick, thesuperintendent of the stage line, took the next coach to Lance Creekand brought Boone back to Deadwood, enlisted in his corps of"messengers"; he was too good timber to miss. 

At that time every coach south-bound from Deadwood to Cheyenne carriedthousands in its mail-pouches and express-boxes; and once a week atreasure coach armored with boiler plate, carrying no passengers, andguarded by six or eight "messengers" or "sawed-off shotgun men, "conveyed often as high as two hundred thousand dollars of hard-wonBlack Hills gold bars. 

Thus it naturally followed that, throughout 1877 and 1878, it was theexception for a coach to get through from the Chugwater to Jenny'sstockade without being held up by bandits at least once. 

Any that happened to escape Jack Wadkins in the south were likely tofall prey to Dune Blackburn in the north--the two most desperatebandit-leaders in the country. 

In February, 1878, I had occasion to follow some cattle thieves fromFort Laramie to Deadwood. Returning south by coach one bitter eveningwe pulled into Lance Creek, eight passengers inside, Boone May andmyself on the box with 'Gene Barnett the driver; Stocking, anotherfamous messenger, roosted behind us atop of the coach, fondling hissawed-off shotgun. 

From Lance Creek southward lay the greatest danger zone. At thatpoint, therefore, Boone and Stocking shifted from the coach to thesaddle, and, as 'Gene popped his whip and the coach crunched awaythrough the snow, both dropped back perhaps thirty yards behind us. 

An hour later, just as the coach got well within a broad belt of plumbushes that lined the north bank of Old Woman's Fork, out into themiddle of the road sprang a lithe figure that threw a snap shot over'Gene's head and halted us. 

Instantly six others surrounded the coach and ordered us down. Ialready had a foot on the nigh front wheel to descend, when a shot outof the brush to the west, (Boone's, I later learned) dropped the manahead of the team. 

Then followed a quick interchange of shots for perhaps a minute, certainly no more, and then I heard Boone's cool voice:

"Drive on, 'Gene!"

"Move an' I'll kill you!" came in a hoarse bandit's voice from thethicket east of us. 

"Drive on, 'Gene, or _I'll kill_ you, " came then from Boone, in a toneof such chilling menace that 'Gene threw the bud into the leaders, andaway we flew at a pace materially improved by three or four shots thebandits sent singing past our ears and over the team! The next downcoach brought to Cheyenne the comforting news that Boone and Stockinghad killed four of the bandits and stampeded the other three. 

Within six months after Boone was employed, both Dune Blackburn andJack Wadkins disappeared from the stage road, dropped out of sight asif the earth had opened and swallowed them, as it probably had. Boonehad a way of absenting himself for days from his routine duties alongthe stage road. He slipped off entirely alone after this new quarryprecisely as he had followed the Sioux horse-raiders and, while henever admitted it, the belief was general that he had run down and"planted" both. Indeed it is almost a certainty this is true, forbeasts of their type never change their stripes, and sure it is thatneither were ever seen or heard of after their disappearance from theDeadwood trail. 

Late in the Autumn of the same year, 1878, and also at or near thestage-crossing of Old Woman's Fork, Boone and one companion foughteight bandits led by a man named Tolle, on whose head was a largereward. This was earned by Boone at a hold-up of a U. P. Express trainnear Green River. 

This band was, in a way, more lucky, for five of the eight escaped; butof the three otherwise engaged one furnished a head which Boone totedin a gunny sack to Cheyenne and exchanged for five thousand dollars, ifmy memory rightly serves. 

This incident was practically the last of the serious hold-ups on theCheyenne road. A few pikers followed and "stood up" a coachoccasionally, but the strong organized bands were extinct. 

Throughout 1879 Boone's activities were transferred to theSidney-Deadwood road, where for several months before Boone's coming, Curly and Lame Johnny had held sway. Lame Johnny was shortlythereafter captured, and hanged on the lone tree that gave the BigCottonwood Creek its name. A few months later, Curly was captured byBoone and another, but was never jailed or tried: when nearingDeadwood, he tried to escape from Boone, and failed. 

With the Sioux pushed back within the lines of their new reservation insouthern Dakota and semi-pacified, and with the Sidney road swept cleanof road-agents, life in Boone's old haunts became for him too tame. Thus it happened that, while trapping was then no better within thanwithout the Sioux reservation, the Winter of 1879-80 found Boone andfour mates camped on the Cheyenne River below the mouth of Elk Creek, well within the reserve, trapping the main stream and its tributaries. For a month they were undisturbed, and a goodly store of fur was fastaccumulating. Then one fine morning, while breakfast was cooking, outfrom the cover of an adjacent hill and down upon them charged a Siouxwar party, one hundred and fifty strong. 

Boone's four mates barely had time to take cover below the hard-byriver bank--under Boone's orders--before fire opened. Down straightupon them the Sioux charged in solid mass, heels kicking and quirtspounding their split-eared ponies, until, having come within a hundredyards, the mass broke into single file and raced past the camp, eachwarrior lying along the off side of his pony and firing beneath itsneck--the usual but utterly stupid and suicidal Sioux tactics, foraccurate fire under such conditions is of course impossible. 

Meantime Boone stood quietly by the camp-fire, entirely in the open, coolly potting the enemy as regularly and surely as a master wing-shotthinning a flight of ducks. Three times they so charged and Boone soreceived them, pouring into them a steady, deadly fire out of hisWinchester and two pistols. And when, after the third charge, the warparty drew off for good, forty-odd ponies and twenty-odd warriors layupon the plain, stark evidence of Boone's wonderful nerve andmarksmanship. Shortly after the fight one of his mates told me thatwhile he and three others were doing their best, there was no doubtthat nearly all the dead fell before Boone's fire. 

A type diametrically opposite to that of the debonair Boone May wasCaptain Jim Smith, one of the best peaceofficers the frontier everknew. Of Captain Smith's early history nothing was known, except thathe had served with great credit as a captain of artillery in the UnionArmy. He first appeared on the U. P. During construction days in thelate sixties. Serving in various capacities as railroad detective, marshal, stock inspector, and the like, for eighteen years CaptainSmith wrote more red history with his pistol (barring May's work on theSioux) than any two men of his time. 

The last I knew of him he had enough dead outlaws to hiscredit--thirty-odd--to start, if not a respectable, at least, afair-sized graveyard. Captain Jim's mere look was almost enough tostill the heart-beat and paralyze the pistol hand of any but thewildest of them all. His great burning black eyes, glowering deadlymenace from cavernous sockets of extraordinary depth, were set in acolossal grim face; his straight, thin-lipped mouth never showed teeth;his heavy, tight-curling black moustache and stiff black imperialalways had the appearance of holding the under lip closely glued to theupper. In years of intimacy, I never once saw on his lips the faintesthint of a smile. He had tremendous breadth of shoulders and depth ofchest; he was big-boned, lean-loined, quick and furtive of movement asa panther. In short, Captain Jim was altogether the mostfearsome-looking man I ever saw, the very incarnation of a relentless, inexorable, indomitable, avenging Nemesis. 

Like most men lacking humor, Captain Jim was devoid of vices; like allmen lacking sentiment, he cultivated no intimacies. Throughout thoseyears loved nothing, animate or inanimate, but his guns--the fulllength "45" that nestled in its breast scabbard next his heart, and theshort "45, " sawed off two inches in front of the cylinder, that healways carried in a deep side-pocket of his long sack coat. This wasoften a much patched pocket, for Jim was a notable economist of time, and usually fired from within the pocket. That he loved those guns Iknow, for often have I seen him fondle them as tenderly as a mother herfirst-born. 

In 1879 Sidney, Neb. , was a hell-hole, filled with the most desperatetoughs come to prey upon overland travellers to and from the BlackHills. Of these toughs McCarthy, proprietor of the biggest saloon andgambling-house in town, was the leading spirit and boss. Nightly, menwho would not gamble were drugged or slugged or leaded. Town marshalscame and went--either feet first or on a keen run. 

So long as its property remained unmolested the U. P. Management didnot mind. But one night the depot was robbed of sixty thousand dollarsin gold bullion. Of course, this was the work of the local gang. Thenthe U. P. Got busy. Pete Shelby summoned Captain Jim to Omaha andcommitted the Sidney situation to his charge. Frequenting haunts wherehe knew the news would be wired to Sidney, Jim casually mentioned thathe was going out there to clean out the town, and purposed killingMcCarthy on sight. This he rightly judged would stampede, or throw achill into, many of the pikers--and simplify his task. 

Arrived in Sidney, Jim found McCarthy absent, at North Platte, due toreturn the next day. Coming to the station the next morning, Jim foundthe express reported three hours late, and returned to his room in therailway House, fifty yards north of the depot. He doffed his coat, shoulder scabbard, and boots, and lay down, shortly falling into a dozethat nearly cost him his life. Most inconsiderately the train made upnearly an hour of its lost time. Jim's awakening was sudden, but notsoon enough. Before he had time to rise at the sound of the softlyopening door, McCarthy was over him with a pistol at his head. 

Jim's left hand nearly touched the gun pocket of his coat, and hisright lay in reach of the other gun; but his slightest movement meantinstant death. 

"Heerd you come to hang my hide up an' skin the town, but you're undera copper and my open play wins, Black Jim! See?" growled McCarthy. 

"Well, Mac, " coolly answered Jim, "you're a bigger damn fool than Iallowed. Never heard of you before makin' a killin' there was nothin'in. What's the matter with you and your gang? I'm after that bullion, and I've got a straight tip: Lame Johnny's the bird that hooked ontoit. If you're standing in with him, you better lead me aplenty, for ifyou don't I'll sure get him. "

"Honest? Is that right, Jim? Ain't lyin' none?" queried McCarthy, relieved of the belief that his gang were suspected. 

"Sure, she's right, Mac. "

"But I heerd you done said you was comin' to do me, " persisted McCarthy. 

"Think I'm fool enough to light in diggin' my own grave, by sendin'love messages like that to a gun expert like you, Mac?" asked CaptainJim. 

Whether it was the subtle flattery or Jim's argument, Mac lowered hisgun, and while backing out of the room, remarked: "Nothin' in mixin' itwith you, Jim, if you don't want me. "

But Mac was no more than out of the room when Jim slid off the bedquick as a cat; softly as a cat, on his noiseless stockinged feet hefollowed Mac down the hall; crafty as a cat, he crept down the creakingstairs, tread for tread, a scant arm's length behind his prey--why, Godalone knows, unless for a savage joy in longer holding another thug'slife in his hands. So he hung, like a leech to the blood it loves, across the corridor and to the middle of the trunk room that laybetween the hall and the hotel office. There Jim spoke:

"Oh! Mr. McCarthy!"

Mac whirled, drawing his gun, just in time to receive a bullet squarelythrough the heart. 

During the day Jim got two more scalps. The rest of the McCarthy ganggot the impression that it was up to them to pull their freight out ofSidney, and acted on it. 

In 1882 the smoke of the Lincoln County War still hung in the timber ofthe Ruidoso and the Bonito, a feud in which nearly three hundred NewMexicans lost their lives. Depredations on the Mescalero Reservationwere so frequent that the Indians were near open revolt. 

Needing a red-blooded agent, the Indian Bureau sought and got one inMajor W. H. H. Llewellyn, since Captain of Rough Riders, Troup H, thena United States marshal with a distinguished record. The then Chief ofthe Bureau offered the Major two troops of cavalry to preserve orderamong the Mescaleros and keep marauders off the reservation, and wasastounded when Llewellyn declined and said he would prefer to handlethe situation with no other aid than that of one man he had in mind. 

Captain Jim Smith was the man. And pleased enough was he when told ofthe turbulence of the country and the certainty of plenty doing in hisline. 

But by the time they reached the Mescalero Agency, the feud was ended;the peace of exhaustion after years of open war and ambush haddescended upon Lincoln County, and the Mescaleros were glad enoughquietly to draw their rations of flour and coffee, and range theSacramentos and Guadalupes for game. For Jim and the band of Indianpolice which he quickly organized there was nothing doing. 

Inaction soon cloyed Captain Jim. It got on his nerves. Presently heconceived a resentment toward the agent for bringing him down thereunder false pretences of daring deeds to be done, that nevermaterialized. One day Major Llewellyn imprudently countermanded anorder Jim had given his Chief of Police, under conditions which theCaptain took as a personal affront. The next thing the Major knew, hewas covered by Jim's gun listening to his death sentence. 

"Major, " began Captain Jim, "right here is where you cash in. Playedme for a big fool long enough. Toted me off down here on the guaranteeof the best show of fightin' I've heard of since the war--here wherethere ain't a man in the Territory with nerve enough left to tackle aprairie dog, 's far 's I can see. Lied to me a plenty, didn't you?Anything to say before you quit?"

Since that time Major Llewellyn has become (and is now) a famouspleader at the New Mexican bar, but I know he will agree that the mosteloquent plea he has t this day made was that in answer to CaptainJim's arraignment. Luckily it won. 

A month later Jim called on me at El Paso. At the time I was Presidentof the West Texas Cattle Growers' Association, organized chiefly todeal with marauding rustlers. 

"Howd'y, Ed, " Jim began, "I've jumped the Mescalero Reservation, headednorth. Nothin' doin' down here now. But, say, Ed, I hear they'recrowdin' the rustlers a plenty up in the Indian Territory and the PanHandle, and she's a cinch they'll be down on you thick in a few months. And, say, Ed, don't forget old Jim; when the rustlers come, send forhim. You know he's the cheapest proposition ever--never any lawyers'fees or court costs, nothin' to pay but just Jim's wages. "

That was the last time we ever met, and lucky it will probably be forme if we never meet again; for if Jim still lives and there is aught inthis story he sees occasion to take exception to, I am sure to be duefor a mix-up I can very well get on without. 

From 1878 to 1880 Billy Lykins was one of the most efficient inspectorsof the Wyoming Stock Growers' Association, a short man of heavymuscular physique and a round, cherubic, pink and white face, in whicha pair of steel-blue glittering eyes looked strangely out of place. Asecond glance, however, showed behind the smiling mouth a set of thejaw that did not belie the fighting eyes. So far as I can now recall, Billy never failed to get what he went after while he remained in ouremploy. 

Probably the toughest customer Billy ever tackled was Doc Middleton. As an outlaw, Doc was the victim of an error of judgment. When hefirst came among us, hailing from Llano County, Texas, Doc was as finea puncher and jolly, good-tempered range-mate as any in the Territory. Sober and industrious, he never drank or gambled. But he had his bitof temper, had Doc, and his chunk of good old Llano nerve. Thus, whena group of carousing soldiers, in a Sidney saloon, one night lit in tobeat Doc up with their six-shooters for refusing to drink with them, the inevitable happened in a very few seconds; Doc killed three ofthem, jumped his horse, and split the wind for the Platte. 

And therein lay his error. 

The killing was perfectly justifiable; surrendered and tried, he wouldsurely have been acquitted. But his breed never surrender, at least, never before their last shell is emptied. Flight having made him anoutlaw, the Government offered a heavy reward for him, dead or alive. For a time he was harbored among his friends on the different ranches;indeed was a welcome guest of my Deadman Ranch for several days; but ina few weeks the hue and cry got so hot that he had to jump for the SandHills south of the Niobrara. 

Ever pursued, he found that honest wage-earning was impossible. Presently he was confronted with want, not of much, indeed of verylittle, but that want was vital--he wanted cartridges. At this timethe Sand Hills were full of deer and antelope; and therefore to himcartridges meant more even than defence of his freedom, they meantfood. It was this want that drove him into his first actual crime, thestealing of Sioux ponies, which he ran into the settlements and sold. 

The downward path of the criminal is like that of the limpid, clean-faced brook, bred of a bubbling spring nestled in some shady nookof the hills, where the air is sweet and pure, and pollution comethnot. But there it may not stay; on and yet on it rushes, as helplessas heedless, till one day it finds itself plunged into some foulcurrent carrying the off-scourings of half a continent. So on and downplunged Doc; from stealing Indian ponies to lifting ranch horses was nolong leap in his new code. 

Then our stock Association got busy and Billy Lykins took his trail. Oddly, in a few months the same type of accident in turn saved the lifeof each. Their first encounter was single-handed. With the betterhorse, Lykins was pressing Doc so close that Doc raced to the crest ofa low conical hill, jumped off his mount, dropped flat on the groundand covered Lykins with a Springfield rifle, meantime yelling to him:

"Duck, you little Dutch fool; I don't want to kill you"; for they kneweach other well, and in a way were friends. 

But Billy never knew when to stop. Deeper into his pony's flank sankthe rowels, and up the hill on Doc he charged, pistol in hand. Atthirty yards Doc pulled the trigger, when--wonder of wonders--thefaithful old Springfield missed fire. Before Doc could throw inanother shell or draw his pistol, Billy was over him and had himcovered. 

If my memory rightly serves, the Sidney jail held Doc almost afortnight. A few weeks later Doc had assembled a strong gang abouthim, rendezvoused on the Piney, a tributary of the lower Niobrara. There he was far east of Lykins's bailiwick, but a good many degreeswithin Lykins's disposition to quit his trail. Accompanied by Major W. H. H. Llewellyn and an Omaha detective (inappropriately named Hassard), Lykins located Doc's camp, and the three lay near for several daysstudying their quarry. 

One morning Llewellyn and Hassard started up the creek, mounted, on ascout, leaving Lykins and his horse hidden in the brush near the trail. At a sharp bend of the path the two ran plunk into Doc and five of hismen. Both being unknown to Doc's gang, and the position and oddsforbidding hostilities, they represented themselves as campers huntinglost stock, and turned and rode back down the trail with the outlaws, alert for any play their leader might make. 

Recognizing his man, Billy lay with his "45" and "70" Sharpscomfortably resting across a log; and when the band were come withintwenty yards of him, he drew a careful bead on Doc's head and pulledthe trigger. By strange coincidence his Sharps missed fire, preciselyas had Doc's Springfield a few weeks before. 

Hearing the snap of the rifle hammer, with a curse Doc jerked his gunand whirled his horse toward the brush just as Billy sprang out intothe open and threw a pistol shot into Doc that broke his thigh. Swaying in saddle, Doc cursed Hassard for leading him into a trap, andshot him twice before himself pitching to the ground. Hassard stoodidly, stunned apparently by a sort of white-hot work he was not usedto, and received his death wound without any effort even to draw. Meantime, the firm of Lykins and Llewellyn accounted for two morebefore Doc's mates got out of range. Thus, like the brook, Doc haddrifted down the turbid current of crime till he found himselfimpounded in the Lincoln penitentiary with the off-scourings of thestate. 

While it is true that back into such impounding most who once have beenthere soon return, Doc turned out to be one of the rare exceptionsproving the rule; for the last I heard of him, he was the lame butlight-hearted and wholly honest proprietor of a respectable Rushvillesaloon. 

When in the early eighties the front camps of the Atchison, Topeka, andSanta Fe and the Texas Pacific met at El Paso, then a village calledFranklin, within a few weeks the population jumped from a few hundredto nearly three thousand. Speculators, prospectors for businessopportunities, mechanics, miners, and tourists poured in--achance-taking, high-living, free-spending lot that offered such richpickings for the predatory that it was not long before nearly every fatpigeon had a hungry, merciless vulture hovering near, watching for achance to fasten its claws and gorge itself. 

The low one-story adobes, fronted by broad, arched portals, that thenlined the west side of El Paso Street for several blocks, was a longsolid row of variety theatres, dance halls, saloons, andgambling-houses, never closed by day or by night. They were packedwith a roistering mob that drifted from one joint to another, dancing, gambling, carousing, fighting. Naturally, at first the predatoryconfined their attentions to the roisterers. 

Of course every lay-out was a brace game, from which no player arosewith any notable winning except occasionally when the "house" felt it agood bit of advertising to graduate a handsome winner--and then it wasusually a "capper, " whose gains were in a few minutes passed back intothe till. 

The faro boxes were full of springs as a watch; faro decks werecarefully cut "strippers. " An average good dealer would shuffle andarrange as he liked the favorite cards of known high-rollers. Thesehad been neatly split on either edge and a minute bit of bristle pastedin, which no ordinary touch would feel, but which the sand-paperedfinger tips of an expert dealer would catch and slip through on theshuffle and place where they would do (the house) the most good. The"tin horns" gave out few but false notes; the roulette balls werekicked silly out of the boxes representing heavily played numbers. Notcontent with the "Kitty's" rake-off, every stud poker table had one ormore "cappers" sitting in, to whom the dealers could occasionally throwa stiff pot. The backs of poker decks were so cunningly marked thatwhile the wise ones could read their size and suit across the table, nountaught eye could detect their guile. And wherever a notable roll wasonce flashed, greedy eyes never left it until it was safe in the tillof some game, or its owner "rolled" and relieved of it by force. 

For months orgy ran riot and the predatory band grew bolder and cruderin their methods. Killings were frequent. Few nights passed withoutmore or less street hold-ups--usually more. Respectable citizens tookthe middle of the street, literally gun in hand, when forced to be outof nights. The Mayor and City Council were powerless. City marshalsand deputies they hired in bunches, but all to no purpose. Each freshlot of appointees were short-lived, literally or officially--mostlyliterally. Finally, a vigilance committee was formed, made up of goodcitizens not a few of whom were gun experts with their own bit of redrecord. But nothing came of it. The predatories openly flouted anddefied them. 

On one notable night when the committee were assembled in front of theold Grand Central Hotel, a mob of two hundred toughs lined up beforethe thirty-odd of the committee and dared them to open the ball; and itwas a miracle the little Plaza was not then and there turned into aslaughter pen bloody as the Alamo. It really looked as if nothingshort of martial law and a strong body of troops could pacify the town. 

But one night, into the chamber of the City Council stalked a man, theman of the hour, unheralded and unknown. He gave the name of BillStoudenmayer. About all that was ever learned of him was that hehailed from Fort Davis. His type was that of a course, brutal, Germanic gladiator, devoid of strategy; a bluff, stubborn, give-and-take fighter, who drove bull-headed at whatever opposed him. But El Paso soon learned that he could handle his guns with as deadlydexterity as did his forebears their nets and tridents. 

Asked his business with the Council, he said he had heard they hadfailed to find a marshal who could hold the town down, and allowed he'dlike to try the job if the Council would make it worth his while. Questioned as to his views, he explained that he was there to make somegood money for himself and save the city more; if they would pay himfive hundred dollars a month for two months, they could discharge alltheir deputies and he would go it alone and agree to clear the town oftoughs or draw no pay. The Mayor and Council were paralyzed in adouble sense: by the wild audacity of this proposal, and by theirmemory of recent threats of the thug-leaders that they would massacrethe Council to a man if any further attempts were made to circumscribetheir activities. Some were openly for declining the offer, but in theend a majority gained heart of Stoudenmayer's own hardihoodsufficiently to hire him. 

The rest of the night Stoudenmayer employed in quietly familiarizinghimself with the personnel of the enemy. He lost no time. At daylightthe next morning, several notices, manually written in a rude hand andeach bearing the signature of the rude hand that wrote it, were foundconspicuously posted between Oregon Street and the Plaza. Thesignature was, "Bill Stoudenmayer, City Marshal. "

The notice was brief but pointed:

"Any of the hold-ups named below I find in town after three o'clockto-day, I'm going to kill on sight. "

Then followed seventy names. The list was carefully chosen: all"pikers" and "four-flushers" were omitted; none but the _élite_ of thegun-twirling, black-jack swinging toughs was included. Hardly a singleman was named in the list lacking a more or less gory record. 

By the toughs Stoudenmayer was taken as a jest, by respectable citizensas a lunatic. Heavy odds were offered that he would not last tillnoon, with few takers. And yet throughout the morning Stoudenmayerquietly walked the streets, unaccompanied save by his two guns and hisconspicuously displayed marshal's star. 

Nothing happened until about two o'clock, when two men sprang out fromambush behind the big cottonwood tree that then stood on the northeastcorner of El Paso and San Antonio Streets, one armed with a shotgun andthe other with a pistol, and started to "throw down" on Stoudenmayer, who was approaching from the other side of the street. But beforeeither got his artillery into action, the Marshal jerked his twopistols and killed both, then quietly continued his stroll, over theirprostrate bodies, and past them, up the street. It was such anobviously workmanlike job that it threw a chill into the hardiest ofthe sixty-eight survivors, --so much of a chill that, thoughStoudenmayer paraded streets and threaded saloon and dance-hall throngsall the rest of the afternoon, seeking his prey, not a single man ofthem could he find; all stayed close in their dens. 

But that the thug-leaders were not idle Stoudenmayer was not longlearning. In the last moments of twilight, just before the pall ofnight fell upon the town, the Marshal was standing on the east side ofEl Paso Street, midway between Oregon and San Antonio Streets, no coverwithin reach of him. Suddenly, without the slightest warning, a heavyfusillade opened on him from the opposite side of the street, afusillade so heavy it would have decimated a company of infantry. Atleast a hundred men fired at him at the word, and it was a miracle hedid not go down at the first volley. But he was not even scathed. Drawing his pistols, Stoudenmayer marched upon the enemy, slowly butsteadily, advancing straight, it seemed, into the jaws of death, butfiring with such wonderful rapidity and accuracy that seven of his foeswere killed and two wounded in almost as many seconds, although allkept close as possible behind the shelter of the _portal_ columns. Andevery second he was so engaged, at least a hundred guns, aimed by crueltrained eyes, that scarce ever before had missed whatever they soughtto draw a bead on, were pouring out upon him a hell of lead that musthave sounded to him like a flight of bees. 

But stand his iron nerve and fatal snap-shooting the thugs could not. Before he was half way across the street, the hostile fire had ceased, and his would-be assassins were flying for the nearest and best coverthey could find. Out of the town they slipped that night, singly andin squads, boarding freight trains north and east, stages west andsouth, stealing teams and saddle stock, some even hitting the trailsafoot, in stark terror of the man. The next morning El Paso foundherself evacuated of more than two hundred men who, while they had beenfor a time her most conspicuous citizens, were such as she was gladenough to spare. In twenty-four hours Bill Stoudenmayer had made hisword good and fairly earned his wages; indeed he had accomplishedsingle-handed what the most hopeful El Pasoites had despaired of seeingdone with less authority and force than two or three troops of regularcavalry. 

Then El Paso settled down to the humdrum but profitable task of layingthe foundations for the great metropolis of the Farther Southwest. Since then, an occasional sporadic case of _triggerfingeritis_ hasdeveloped in El Paso, usually in an acute form; but never once sincethe night Stoudenmayer turned the El Paso Street Portals into ashambles has it threatened as an epidemic. 

Unluckily, Bill Stoudenmayer did not last long to enjoy the glory ofhis deed. He was a marked man, merely from motives of revenge harboredby friends of the departed (dead or live), but as a man with areputation so big as to hang up a rare prize in laurels for any withthe strategy and hardihood to down him. It was therefore matter of nogeneral surprise when, a few weeks after his resignation as CityMarshal, he fell the victim of a private quarrel. 

A few years later, Hal Gosling was the U. S. Marshall for the WesternDistrict of Texas. Early in Gosling's regime, Johnny Manning becameone of his most efficient and trusted deputies. The pair were wideopposites: Gosling, a big, bluff, kindly, rollicking dare-devil afraidof nothing, but a sort that would rather chaff than fight; Manning aquiet, reserved, slender, handsome little man, not so very much biggerthan a full-grown "45, " who actually sought no quarrels but wouldrather fight than eat. Each in his own may [Transcriber's note: way?], the pair made themselves a holy terror to such of the desperadoes asventured any liberties with Uncle Sam's belongings. 

One of their notable captures was a brace of road-agents who hadappropriated the Concho stage road and about everything of value thattravelled it. The two were tried in the Federal Court at Austin andsentenced to hard labor at Huntsville. Gosling and Manning started toescort them to their new field of activity. Handcuffed but nototherwise shackled, the two prisoners were given a seat together nearthe middle of a day coach. By permission of the Marshal, the wife ofone and the sister of the other sat immediately behind them--dear oldHal Gosling never could resist any appeal to his sympathies. The seatdirectly across the aisle from the two prisoners was occupied byGosling and Manning. With the car well filled with passengers andtheir men ironed, the Marshal and his Deputy were off their guard. When out of Austin barely an hour, the train at full speed, the twowomen slipped pistols into the hands of the two convicted bandits, unseen by the officers. But others saw the act, and a stir of alarmamong those near by caused Gosling to whirl in his seat next the aisle, reaching for the pistol in his breast scabbard. But he was too late. Before he was half risen to his feet or his gun out, the prisonersfired and killed him. 

Then ensued a terrible duel, begun at little more than arm's length, between Manning and the two prisoners, who presently began backingtoward the rear door. Quickly the car filled with smoke, and in itpandemonium reigned, women screaming, men cursing, all who had notdropped in a faint ducking beneath the car seats and trying their bestto burrow in the floor. When at length the two prisoners reached theplatform and sprang from the moving train, Johnny Manning, shot full ofholes as a sieve, lay unconscious across Hal Gosling's body; and thesister of one of the bandits hung limp across the back of the seat theprisoners had occupied, dead of a wild shot. 

But Johnny had well avenged Hal's death and his own injuries; one ofthe prisoners was found dead within a few yards of the track, and theother was captured, mortally wounded, a half-mile away. 

After many uncertain weeks, when Manning's system had successfullyrecovered from the overdose of lead administered by the departed, hequietly resumed his star and belt, and no one ever discovered that theincident had made him in the least gun-shy. 

Whenever the history of the Territory of New Mexico comes to bewritten, the name of Colonel Albert J. Fountain deserves and shouldhave first place in it. Throughout the formative epoch of herevolution from semi-savagery to civilization, an epoch spanning theyears from 1866 to 1896, Colonel Fountain was far and away her mostdistinguished and most useful citizen. As soldier, scholar, dramatist, lawyer, prosecutor, Indian fighter, and desperado-hunter, his was themost picturesque personality I have ever known. Gentle andkind-hearted as a woman, a lover of his books and his ease, henevertheless was always as quick to take up arms and undergo any hazardand hardship in pursuit of murderous rustlers as he was in 1861 to jointhe California Column (First California Volunteers) on its march acrossthe burning deserts of Arizona to meet and defeat Sibley at Val Verde. A face fuller of the humanities and charities of life than his would behard to find; but, roused, the laughing eyes shone cold as a wintrysky. He despised wrong, and hated the criminal, and spent his wholelife trying to right the one and suppress or exterminate the other. Inthis work, and of it, ultimately, he lost his life. 

In the early eighties, while the New Mexican courts were well-nighidle, crime was rampant, especially in Lincoln, Dona Ana, and GrantCounties. To the east of the Rio Grande the Lincoln County War was atits height, while to the west the Jack Kinney gang took whatever theywanted at the muzzle of their guns; and they wanted about everything insight. County peace officers were powerless. 

At this stage Fountain was appointed by the Governor "Colonel of StateMilitia, " and given a free hand to pacify the country. As an organizedmilitary body, the militia existed only in name. And so Fountain leftit. Serious and effective as was his work, no man loved a grand-standplay more than he. He liked to go it alone, to be the only thing inthe spot light. Thus most of his work as a desperado-hunter was donesingle-handed. 

On only one occasion that I can recall did he ever have with him on hisraids more than one or two men, always Mexicans, temporarily deputized. That was when he met and cleaned out the Kinney gang over on theMiembres, and did it with half the number of the men he was after. Among those who escaped was Kinney's lieutenant. A few weeks laterColonel Fountain learned that this man was in hiding at Concordia, a_placita_ two miles below El Paso. He was one of the most desperateMexican outlaws the border has ever known, a man who had boasted hewould never be taken alive, and that he would kill Fountain before hewas himself taken dead, a human tiger, whom the bravest peace officermight be pardoned for wanting a great deal of help to take. YetFountain merely took his armory's best and undertook it alone: and bymid-afternoon of the very next day after the information reached him hehad his man safely manacled at the El Paso depot of the Santa FeRailway. 

While waiting for the train, Colonel George Baylor, the famous Captainof Texas Rangers, chided Fountain for not wearing a cord to fasten hispistol to his belt, as then did all the Rangers, to prevent its lossfrom the scabbard in a running fight; and he finished by detaching hisown cord, and looping one end to Fountain's belt and the other to hispistol. Then Fountain bade his old friend good-bye and boarded thetrain with his prisoner, taking a seat near the centre of the rear car. 

When well north of Canutillo and near the site of old Fillmore, Fountain rose and passed forward to speak to a friend who was sitting afew seats in front of him, a safe enough proceeding, apparently, withhis prisoner handcuffed and the train doing thirty-five miles an hour. But scarcely had he reached his friend's side, when a noise behind himcaused him turn--just in time to see his Mexican running for rear door. Instantly Fountain sprang after him, before he got to the door the manhad leaped from platform. Without the slightest hesitation, Fountainjumped after him, hitting the ground only a few seconds behind him butthirty or forty yards away, rolling like a tumbleweed along the ground. By the time Fountain had regained his feet, his prisoner was running attop speed for the mesquite thickets lining the river, in whose shadowshe must soon disappear, for it was already dusk. Reaching for hispistol and finding it gone--lost evidently in the tumble--and fearingto lose his prisoner entirely if he stopped to hunt for it, Fountainhit the best pace he could in pursuit. But almost at the first jumpsomething gave him a thump on the shin that nearly broke it, and, looking down, there, dangling on Colonel Baylor's pistol-cord, he sawhis gun. 

Always a cunning strategist, Fountain dropped to the ground, sky-linedhis man on the crest of a little hillock he had to cross, and took acareful two-handed aim which enabled Rio Grande ranchers thereafter tosleep easier of nights. 

And now, just as I am finishing this story, the wires bring the sadnews that dear old Pat Garrett, the dean and almost the last survivorof the famous man-hunted of west Texas and New Mexico, has gone the wayof his kind--"died with his boots on. " I cannot help believing that hewas the victim of a foul shot, for in his personal relations I neverknew him to court a quarrel or fail to get an adversary. Many a nightwe have camped, eaten, and slept together. Barring Colonel Fountain, Pat Garrett had stronger intellectuality and broader sympathies thanany of his kind I ever met. He could no more do enough for a friendthan he could do enough to an outlaw. In his private affairs soeasy-going that he began and ended a ne'er-do-well, in his officialduties as a peace officer he was so exacting and painstaking that hene'er did ill. His many intrepid deeds are too well known to needrecounting here. 

All his life an atheist, he was as stubbornly contentious for hisunbelief as any Scotch Covenanter for his best-loved tenets. 

Now, laid for his last rest in the little burying-ground of Las Cruces, a tiny, white-paled square of sandy, hummocky bench land where the pinkof fragile nopal petals brightens the graves in Spring and the mesquiteshowers them with its golden pods in Summer; where the sweet scent ofthe _juajilla_ loads the air, and the sun ever shines down out of abright and cloudless sky; where a diminutive forest of crosses of woodand stone symbolize the faith he in life refused to accept--now, perhaps, Pat Garrett has learned how widely he was wrong. 

Peace to his ashes, and repose to his dauntless spirit!

[1] _Triggerfingeritis_ is an acute irritation of the sensory nerves ofthe index finger of habitual gun-packers; usually fatal--to some one. 

CHAPTER V

A JUGGLER WITH DEATH

This is the story of a man, a virile, strong, resourceful man, all ofwhose history from his youth to his untimely death thrills one at thereading and points lessons worth learning. 

The most careful study and the most just comparison would doubtlessconcede to Washington Harrison Donaldson the high rank--high, indeed, in a double sense--of having been the greatest aeronaut the world hasever known. 

While a few men have done some great deeds in aeronautics which he didnot accomplish, nevertheless Donaldson did more things never evenundertaken by any other aeronaut that any man who has ever lived. Indeed, much of his work would be deemed by mankind at large downrightabsurd, hair-brained, foolhardy, and reckless to the point of actualmadness; and yet no man ever possessed a saner mind than Donaldson; noman was ever more fond of family, friends, and life in general, ornormally more reluctant to undertake what he regarded as a needlesslyhazardous task. His boldest and most seemingly reckless feats were tohim no more than the every-day work of a man of a strong mind, of astout heart, and of a perfectly trained body, who had so completelymastered every detail of his profession as gymnast, acrobat, andaeronaut, that he had come to have absolute faith in himself, downrightabiding certainty that within his sphere of work not only must hesucceed, but that, in the very nature of things it was quite impossiblefor him to fail. 

Donaldson's story may well serve as an inspiration, as does that ofevery man who, with a cool head and high courage, takes his life in hishands for adventure into the world's untrodden fields. While he wasregarded by average onlookers as little better than a "Merry Andrew, " apublic shocker, doing feats before the multitude to still the heart andfreeze the blood, those whose fortune it was to know him intimatelyrealized him to be a man of the most serious purpose, with a greatfaith in the future of aerial navigation. He seemed to be possessed bythe conviction that it was one day to become wholly practicable andgenerally useful; for he was keen to do all he could to popularize andadvance it, and to demonstrate its large measure of safety wherepractised under reasonable conditions. 

To many still living his memory is dear--to all indeed who ever knewhim well, and it is to his memory and to the surviving friends who heldhim dear I dedicate this little story. 

Washington Harrison Donaldson was the son of David Donaldson, an artistof no mean ability of Philadelphia, where the boy was born October 10, 1840. The mother, of straight descent from a line of patriots activeduring the Revolution, gave the boy the name of Washington; the father, an ardent worker for General Harrison's candidacy for the presidency inthe "Tippecanoe-and-Tyler-too" campaign, added the name of Harrison. It is not conceivable that this christening with two names so closelylinked with notable deeds of high emprise in the early history of thiscountry, had its influence upon the boy. 

As a mere youth he showed the most adventurous spirit and ardentambition to excel his mates, to do deeds of skill and dexterity thatothers could not do. When still a child he was running up anunsupported eight-foot ladder, and balancing himself upon the topmostround in a way to startle the cleverest professional athletes. Alittle later, getting hold of any old rope, stretching it in any oldway as a "slack-rope, " he was busy perfecting himself as a slack-ropewalker. Naturally, school held him only a very few years, for his typeof mind obviously was not that of a student. 

While still in early youth, he got his father's consent to work in theparental studio, and persevered long enough to acquire some ability insketching. Later he employed this art in illustrating some of hisaerial voyages. During these studio days he studied legerdemain andventriloquism, and became one of the most expert sleight-of-handwizards and ventriloquial entertainers of his time. 

Donaldson's first appearance before the public was at the old Long'sVarieties on South Third Street in Philadelphia. His feats as arope-walker have probably never been surpassed. In 1862 a rope twelvehundred feet long was stretched across the Schuylkill River atPhiladelphia at a height of twelve hundred feet above the water. Afterpassing back and forth repeatedly over this rope, he finished hisexhibition by leaping from a rope into the river from a height ofapproximately ninety feet. Two years later he successfully walked arope eighteen hundred feet long and two hundred feet high, stretchedacross the Genesee Falls at Rochester, N. Y. Five years later he wasriding a velocipede on a tight-wire from stage to gallery of aPhiladelphia theatre, the first to do this performance. 

Thus his years were spent between 1857 and 1871; and great as were thedangers and severe the tasks incident to this period of his career, tohim it was not work but the play he loved. While the work in itselfwas not one to emulate--for there are perhaps few less useful tasksthan those that made up his occupation--nevertheless, he was traininghimself for his career; and the absolute mastery over it which heaccomplished, the boldness with which he did it, the readiness, certainty, and complete success with which he carried out everything heundertook make a lesson worth studying. 

Donaldson's career as an aeronaut was brief. His first ascent was madeAugust 30, 1871; his last, July 15, 1875. The story of the first ischaracteristic of the man. In his lexicon there was no such word as"fail. " His balloon was small, holding only eight thousand cubic feetof gas. The gas was of poor quality, and when ready to rise he foundit impossible even to make a start until all ballast had been thrownfrom the basket; and when at length the start was made, it was only toalight in a few minutes on the roof of a neighboring house. Bent uponwinning and doing at all hazards what he had undertaken, Donaldsonquickly cast overboard all loose objects in the basket--ropes, anchors, provisions, even down to his boots and coat. Thus relieved of weight, he was able to make a voyage of about eighteen miles. 

There are two essentials to safe ballooning: first, the easy working ofthe cord which controls the safety valve at the top of the netting, bywhich descent may be effected when the balloon is going too high; andsurplus ballast, which may be thrown out to lighten the balloon whenapproaching the ground, to avoid striking the earth at dangerouslyrapid speed. Hence it followed that, his car having been stripped ofevery bit of weight to obtain the ascent, Donaldson's descent was soviolent that he was not a little bruised before he got his balloonsafety [Transcriber's note: safely?] anchored again upon the earth. 

The difficulties and risks of this first trip, arising from the poorappliances he had, were enough to discourage, if not deter, a heartless bold than his, but to him a new difficulty only meant the lettingout of another reef in his resolution to conquer it. Thus it was thatimmediately upon his return from this, his first trip, he not onlyannounced that he would make another ascent the ensuing week, but thathe would undertake something never previously undertaken in aerialnavigation, namely, that he would dispense with the basket or car swungbeneath the concentrating ring of every normal balloon, and in itsplace would have nothing but a simple trapeze bar suspended beneath thering, upon which in mid-air, at high altitude, he proposed to performall feats done by then most highly trained gymnasts in trapezeperformances. 

His experience on this first trip, to quote his own phraseology, was"so glorious that I decided to abandon the tight-rope forever. "

The second ascent was made in a light breeze. When approximately amile in height, to quote a chronicler:

"Suddenly the aeronaut threw himself backward and fell, catching withhis feet on the bar, thus sending a thrill through the crowd; but withanother spring he was upstanding on the bar, and then followed one featafter another--hanging by one hand, one foot, by the back of his head, etc. , until the blood ceased to curdle in the veins of the awe-strickencrowd, and they gave vent to their feelings in cheer after cheer. Hisglittering dress sparkled in the sun long after his outline was lost tothe naked eye. "

Intending no long journey, Donaldson climbed from the trapeze into theconcentrating ring, where he seized the cord operating the safety valveand sought to open the valve. But the valve stuck and did not openreadily, thus when Donaldson gave a more violent tug at the cord in hiseffort to open the valve, a great rent was torn in the top of the gasbag, through which the gas poured, causing the balloon to fall withappalling rapidity. Long afterwards Donaldson said that this was thefirst time in his life that he had ever felt actually afraid. Luckilyhe dropped into the top of a large tree, which broke his fallsufficiently to enable him to land without any serious injury. 

Donaldson's sincerity and downright joy in his work, and the poetictemperament, which in him was always struggling for utterance, arepointed out by a chronicler in the words added by him to thedescription Donaldson gave of his trip after his return to Norfolk in1872:

"The people of Norfolk cannot form the remotest conception of the grandappearance of Norfolk from a balloon. The city looks almost surroundedby water, and the various tributaries to the Elizabeth River appearmagnificently beautiful, looking like streams of silver. Floating overa field of foliage, the trees appear all blended together like bladesof grass. "

The chronicler adds:

"Donaldson seemed to be perfectly enraptured by his subject, as wasevinced by the beaming expression of his countenance while relating hisexperience. The motion of the balloon he describes as delightful, particularly in ascent, as it appears to be perfectly motionless, andany object within view beneath looks as if it were receding from you. "

As a token of appreciation of this particular exploit, a handsome goldmedal was given to Donaldson by the citizens of Norfolk. 

A later ascent from Norfolk resulted in one of the most perilousexperiences ever endured by any aeronaut, and indeed developedconditions from which none could possibly have hoped to escape withlife except a perfectly trained and fearless aeronaut. His experienceon this trip he told as follows:

"After cutting the basket loose, the balloon shot up very rapidly. Ipulled the valve cord and the gas escaped too freely. I was thenalmost at the water's edge, and going at the rate of one mile a minute. Quick work must be done, or a watery grave. I had either to cut a holein the balloon or go to sea, and as there were no boats in sight, Ichose the lesser evil. Seizing three of the cords, I swung out of thering, into the netting, the balloon careening on her side. I climbedhalf way up the netting, opened my knife with my teeth, and cut a holeabout two feet long. The instant I cut the hole the gas rushed out sofast that could scarcely get back to the ring. After reaching the ringI lashed myself fast to it with a rope. While I was climbing up therigging to cut the hole in the side of the balloon, my cap fell off, and so fast did I descend that before I got half way down I caught upwith and passed the cap. Continuing to descend, I struck the ground ina large corn field, and was dragged nearly a thousand feet, the windblowing a perfect gale. Crashing against a rail fence, I was renderedinsensible. When I came to, I found myself hanging to one side of atree, and the balloon to the other side, ripped to shreds. This wasthe _last tree_. I could have thrown a stone into the ocean from whereI landed. On this trip I travelled ten miles in seven minutes. 

"Many want to know if the wind blows hard up there. They do not stopto think that I am carried by the wind, and whether I am in a dead calmor sailing at the rate of one hundred miles an hour, I am perfectlystill; and when I went the ten miles in seven minutes I did not feelthe slightest breeze; and when I cannot see the earth it is impossibleto tell whether I am going or hanging still. "

Just as Donaldson was a bit of an artist and left many sketchesillustrating his experiences, so also he was a bit of a poet and leftmany pieces describing in lofty thought, but crude versification, thesentiments inspired by his ascents. The following is one of them:

 "There's pleasure in a lively trip when sailing through the air, The word is given, 'Let her go!' To land I know not where. The view is grand, 'tis like a dream, when many miles from home. My castle in the air, I love above the clouds to roam. "

In prose Donaldson was very much more at home than in verse; indeedmany of his descriptions equal in clearness and beauty anything everwritten of the impressions that come to fliers in cloudland. Take, forexample, the following:

"It's a pleasure to be up here, as I sit and look at the grand cloudpictures, the most splendid effects of light, unknown to all that clingto the surface of the earth. The ever-shifting scenes, the bright, dazzling colors, the soft roseate and purple hues, the sudden light andfiery sun . . . And on I go as if carried by spiritual wings, far abovethe diminutive objects of a liliputian world. We rise in the midst ofsplendor, where light and silence combine to make one wish he neverneed return. "

Donaldson was a many-sided man--among other things, in no small measurea philosopher, as when he commented as follows:

"I have noticed on different occasions a class of people who were onlyhalf alive and who find fault with my exercise, which to them looksfrightful. They [Transcriber's note: Their?] nervous system is notproperly balanced. They have too much nerves for their system, whichis caused by want of a little moderate exercise up where the air ispure, instead of which they spend hours in a place which they calltheir office. They sit themselves in a dark corner, hidden from thesun's rays, and in one position remain for hours, inhaling thepoisonous air with the room full of carbonic acid gas, which is aspoisonous to man as arsenic is to rats; and in addition to this, willfill their lungs with tobacco smoke, and to steady their nerves requirea stimulation of perhaps eight or ten brandies a day. If I were ashelpless as this class of people, then my life would be swinging by athread, and I would wind up with a broken neck. "

About as sound philosophy and scientific hygiene as could well be found. 

And yet another side to his character: the kindly nature, thegentleness and generous thought for others, reluctance to causeneedless injury or pain, which is always the characteristic of any manof real courage. This beautiful side of his nature he once hinted atas follows:

"I cannot look at a person cutting a chicken's head off, and as forshooting a poor, innocent bird for sport, I think it is a great wrongand should not be allowed. Did you ever think what a barbarous set wewere--worse than Indians or Fiji Islanders! There is nothing livingbut what we torture and kill. As for fear . . . My candid opinion isthat the only time one is out of danger is when sailing through the airin a balloon. "

Early in 1873, after having made twenty-five or thirty ascents, andwell-nigh exhausted people's capacity for sensations and excitementsafforded by ballooning over _terra firma_, Donaldson began making plansfor a balloon of a capacity and equipment adequate, in his judgment, toenable him to make a successful crossing of the Atlantic to England orthe Continent. So soon as his plans became publicly known, ProfessorJohn Wise, who as early as 1843 had done his best to raise the fundsnecessary for a transatlantic journey by balloon, joined forces withDonaldson, and together they made application to the authorities of thecity of Boston for an adequate appropriation. This was voted by oneBoard but vetoed by another. Thereupon, _The Daily Graphic_ took uptheir proposition, and undertook the financing of the expedition undera formal contract executed June 27, 1873. As a consequence of thiscontract, Donaldson proceeded to build the largest balloon everconstructed, of a gas capacity of 600, 000 cubic feet, and a liftingpower of 14, 000 pounds. The total weight of the balloon, including itscar, lifeboat, and equipment, was 7, 100 pounds, thus leavingapproximately 6, 000 pounds surplus lifting capacity for ballast, passengers, etc. 

Of course, a liberal supply of provisions was to be carried, withtools, guns, and fishing tackle, to be available for meeting anyemergency arising from a landing in a wild, unsettled region. Moreover, a carefully selected set of scientific instruments wasembraced in the equipment for making observations and records ofchanging conditions _en route_. 

The inflation of this aerial monster began in Brooklyn at theCapitoline Grounds September 10, 1873. A high wind prevailed, andafter the bag had received 100, 000 cubic feet of gas, she became sonearly uncontrollable, notwithstanding 300 men and 100 sacks ofballast, each sack weighing 200 pounds, were holding her down, thatDonaldson and his associates decided to empty her. 

On the twelfth of September inflation was again undertaken, although ahigh wind again prevailed. When something more than half full, the bagburst, and the aeronauts concluded that she was of a size impossible tohandle. The bag and rigging were thereupon taken in hand, and she wasreduced one-half; that is, to a capacity of 300, 000 cubic feet of gas. 

The remodelling was finished early in October, and inflation of thisnew balloon was begun at 1 p. M. On Sunday, October 6, and by 10. 30 p. M. Of that day the inflation was completed, the life-boat was attached, and she was firmly secured for the night. 

At nine the next morning the crew took their places in the boat. Donaldson as aeronaut; Alfred Ford as correspondent for the _Graphic_;George Ashton Lunt, an experienced seaman, as navigator. Ascent wasmade, without incident, the balloon drifting first to the north, andthen to the southward toward Long Island Sound. 

Unhappily this voyage was brief, and very nearly tragical in itsfinish. About noon the balloon entered the field of a storm of windand rain of extraordinary violence, and before long the cordage, etc. , was so heavily loaded with moisture, that although practically allavailable ballast was disposed of, the balloon descended in spite ofthem. The speed of the balloon was so great that Donaldson did notdare hazard a dash against some house, or into some forest or otherobstacle, but selected a piece of open ground, and advised hiscompanions to hang by their hands over the side of the boat and drop atthe word. The word at length given by Donaldson, both he and Forddropped--a distance of about thirty feet, happily without seriousinjury other than a severe shaking up. Lunt, curious about thedistance and the effect of such a fall, as well as unfamiliar with theaction of a balloon when relieved of weight, hung watching the descentof his companions--only to realise quickly that he was shooting up intothe air like a rocket. Then he clambered back into the boat. However, it was not long before, again weighted and beaten down by thecontinuing rain, the balloon descended upon a forest, where Lunt swunghimself into a tree-top, whence he dropped through its branches to theearth, practically unhurt. 

Thus ended the transatlantic voyage of the _Graphic_ balloon, a voyagethat constitutes the only serious failure I can recall of anything inthe line of his profession as an aeronaut that Donaldson ever undertookto do. This failure is not to be counted to his discredit, forprecisely as a good soldier does not surrender until his last round ofammunition is spent, so Donaldson did not give in until his last poundof ballast was exhausted. 

In all respects the most brilliant aerial voyage ever made by Donaldsonwas his sixty-first ascension, on July 24, 1874, a voyage whichcontinued for twenty-six hours. This was the longest balloon voyage inpoint of hours ever made up to that time, and indeed it remained aworld's record for endurance up in the air until 1900, and theendurance record in the United States, until the recent St. Louis CupRace. 

The ascent was made from Barnum's "Great Roman Hippodrome, " which forsome years occupied the site of what is now Madison Square Garden, in aballoon built by Mr. Barnum to attempt to break the record for time anddistance of all previous balloon voyages. An account of this thrillingtrip is given in the following chapter of this book. 

The history of the ascent Donaldson made from Toronto, Canada, on June23, 1875, is in itself a sufficient refutation of the charges made lessthan a month later, that on his last trip he sacrificed his passenger, Grimwood, to save his own life. On his Toronto trip he was accompaniedby Charles Pirie, of the _Globe_; Mr. Charles, of the _Leader_; and Mr. Devine, of the _Advertiser_. On this occasion Donaldson accepted thethree passengers under the strongest protest, after having told themplainly that the balloon was leaky, the wind blowing out upon the lake, and that the ascent must necessarily be a peculiarly dangerous one. Nevertheless, they decided to take the hazard. Later they regrettedtheir temerity. Husbanding his ballast as best he could, nevertheless, the loss of gas through leakage was such that by midnight, when wellover the centre of Lake Ontario, the balloon descended into a rough, tempestuous sea, and was saved from immediate destruction only by thecutting away of both the anchor and the drag rope. This gave them atemporary lease of life, but at one o'clock the car again struck thewaters and dragged at a frightful speed through the lake, compellingthe passengers to stand on the edge of the basket and cling to theropes, the cold so intense they were well-nigh benumbed. At lengththey were rescued by a passing boat, but this was not until after threeo'clock in the morning. 

Of Donaldson's conduct in these hours of terrible tremity, a passengerwrote:

"But for his judicious use of the ballast, his complete control of theballoon as far as it could be controlled, his steady nerve, kindness, and coolness in the hour of danger, the occupants would never havereached land. . . . The party took no provisions with them exceptingtwo small pieces of bread two inches square, which Mr. Devine happenedto have in his pocket. At eleven at night, the Professor, having hadnothing but a noon lunch, was handed up the bread. . . . About threeo'clock in the morning, when the basket was wholly immersed in thewater, and the inmates clinging almost lifelessly to the ropes, theProfessor climbed down to them, and they were surprised to see in hishand the two small pieces of bread they had given him the night before. He had hoarded it up all night, and instead of eating it he said withcheery voice, 'Well, boys, all is up. Divide this among you. It maygive you strength enough to swim. ' There was not a man among them thatwould touch it until the Professor first partook of it. It was only asmall morsel for each. . . . He said that he had but onelife-preserver on board, and suggested we should draw lots for the manwho should leave and lighten the balloon. "

While this discussion was on, the boat approached that saved them. 

This simple story of Donaldson's true courage, cheerfulness, self-denial, readiness to sacrifice himself for others, is no less thanan epic of the noblest heroism that stands an irrefutable answer to thecharge later made that Donaldson sacrificed Grimwood. 

Three weeks later--to be precise, on the fifteenth of July--Donaldsonand his beloved airship, the _P. T. Barnum_, made their last ascent, from Chicago. The balloon was already old--more than a year old--thecanvas weakened and in many places rent and patched, the cordage frail. In short, the balloon was in poor condition to stand any extraordinarystress of weather. 

His companion on this trip was Mr. Newton S. Grimwood, of _The ChicagoEvening Journal_. Donaldson had expected to be able to take two men;and Mr. Maitland, of the _Post & Mail_, was present with the other twoin the basket immediately before the hour of starting. At the lastmoment Donaldson concluded that it was unwise to take more than one, and required lots to be drawn. Maitland tossed a coin, called "Heads, "and won; but Mr. Thomas, the press agent, insisted that the usualmethod of drawing written slips from a hat be followed, and on thissecond lot-casting Maitland lost his place in the car, but won his life. 

The ascent was made about 5 p. M. , the prevailing wind carrying them outover Lake Michigan. About 7 p. M. , a tug-boat sighted the balloon, thenabout thirty miles off shore, trailing its basket along the surface ofthe lake. The tug changed her course to intercept the balloon, butbefore it was reached, probably through the cutting away of the dragrope and anchor, the balloon bounded into the air, and soondisappeared, and never again was aught of Donaldson or the balloon_Barnum_ seen by human eye. A little later a storm of extraordinaryfury broke over the lake--a violent electric storm accompanied by heavyrain. 

Weeks passed with no news of the voyagers or their ship. A month laterthe body of Grimwood was found on the shores of Lake Michigan and fullyidentified. 

The precise story of that terrible night will never be written, butknowing the man and his trade, sequence of incident is as plain to meas if told by one of the voyagers. Evidently the balloon sprung a leakearly. The last ballast must have been spent before the tug saw hertrailing in the lake. Then anchor and drag ropes were sacrificed. This would inevitably give the balloon travelling power for aconsiderable time, --time of course depending on the measure of the leakof gas, --but ultimately she must again have descended upon the ragingwaters of the lake, where Grimwood, of untrained strength, soon becameexhausted while trying to hold himself secure in the ring, and fell outinto the lake. Thus again relieved of weight, the balloon received anew lease of life, and travelled on probably, to a fatal final descentin some untrodden corner of the northern forest, where no one ever haschanced to stumble across the wreck. For had the balloon made itsfinal descent into the lake, it would have been only after the basketwas utterly empty, all the loose cordage cut away, and a type of wreckleft that would float for weeks or months and would almost certainlyhave been found. Indeed, for months afterwards the writer and manyothers of Donaldson's friends held high hopes of hearing of himreturned in safety from some remote distance in the wilds. But thiswas not to be. 

One more incident and I have done. 

Six or seven years ago I read in the columns of the _Sun_ an articlecopied from a Chicago paper, evidently written by some close friend ofthe unfortunate Grimwood, making a bitter attack upon Donaldson forhaving sacrificed his passenger's life to save his own. The storymoved me so much that I wrote an open letter to the Sun over my ownsignature, in which I sought to refute the charge by recounting thestory of Donaldson's noble conduct, and his constant readiness forself-sacrifice in other situations quite as dire. 

A few days later, sitting in my office, I was frozen with astonishmentwhen a written card was handed in to me bearing the name "Washington H. Donaldson"! As soon as I could recover myself, the bearer of the cardwas asked in. He was a man within a year or two of my friend's age atthe time of his death, Wash Donaldson's very self in face and figure!He had the same bright, piercing eye, that looked straight into mine;the same lean, square jaws and resolute mouth; the same waving hair, the same low, cool, steady voice--such a resemblance as to dull mysenses, and make me wonder and grope to understand how my friend couldthus come back to me, still young after so many years. 

It was Donaldson's son, a babe in arms at the time his father sailedaway to his death!

In a few simple words he told me that he and his family lived in asmall village. With infinite grief they had read the article charginghis father with unmanly conduct--a grief that was the greater becausethey possessed no means to refute the charge. Brokenly, with tears ofgratitude, he told of their joy in reading my statements in hisfather's defence, and how he had been impelled to come and try inperson to express to me the gratitude he felt he could not write. 

Poor though this man may be in this world's goods, in the record of hisfather's character and deeds he owns a legacy fit to give him placeamong the Peers of Real Manhood. 

Through some mischance I have lost the address of Donaldson's son. Should he happen to read these lines I hope he will communicate with me. 

CHAPTER VI

AN AERIAL BIVOUAC

In the history of contests since man first began striving against hisfellows, seldom has a record performance stood so long unbroken as thatof the good airship _Barnum_, made thirty-three years ago. Of hercaptain and crew of five men, six all told, the writer remains the solesurvivor, the only one who may live to see that record broken in thiscountry. 

The _Barnum_ rose at 4 p. M. July 26, 1874, from New York and made herlast landing nine miles north of Saratoga at 6. 07 p. M. Of thetwenty-seventh, thus finishing a voyage of a total elapsed time oftwenty-six hours and seven minutes. In the interim she made fourlandings, the first of no more than ten minutes; the second, twenty;the third, ten; the fourth, thirty-five; and these descents cost anexpenditure of gas and ballast which shortened her endurance capacityby at least two or three hours. 

Tracing on a map her actual route traversed, gives a total distance ofsomething over four hundred miles, which gave her the record of secondplace in the history of long-distance ballooning in this country, arecord which she still holds. 

So far as my knowledge of the art goes, and I have tried to read all ofits history, the _Barnum's_ voyage of twenty-six hours, seven minuteswas then and remained the world's endurance record until 1900; and itstill remains, in point of hours up, the longest balloon voyage evermade in the United States. 

The longest voyage in point of distance ever made in this country wasthat of John Wise and La Mountain, in the fifties, from St. Louis, Mo. , to Jefferson County, N. Y. , a distance credited under the old custom ofa little less than twelve hundred miles, while the actual distanceunder the new rules is between eight hundred and nine hundred miles, the time being nineteen hours. This voyage also remained, I believe, the world's record for distance until 1900, and still remains theAmerican record--and lucky, indeed, will be the aeronaut who beats it. 

P. T. Barnum's "Great Roman Hippodrome, " now for many years MadisonSquare Garden, was never more densely crowded than on the afternoon ofJuly 26, 1874. Early in the Spring of that year Mr. Barnum hadannounced the building of a balloon larger than any theretofore made inthis country. His purpose in building it was to attempt to break allprevious records for time and distance, and he invited each of fivedaily city papers of that time to send representatives on the voyage. So when the day set for the ascent arrived, not only was the oldHippodrome packed to the doors, but adjacent streets and squares weresolid black with people, as on a _fête_ day like the Dewey Parade. 

Happily the day was one of brilliant sunshine and clear sky, withscarcely a cloud above the horizon. 

The captain of the _Barnum_ was Washington. H. Donaldson, by far themost brilliant and daring professional aeronaut of his day, and aclever athlete and gymnast. For several weeks prior to the ascent ofthe _Barnum_, Donaldson had been making daily short ascents of an houror two from the Hippodrome in a small balloon--as a feature of theperformance. Sometimes he ascended in a basket, at other times withnaught but a trapeze swinging beneath the concentrating ring of hisballoon himself in tights perched easily upon the bar of the trapeze. And when at a height to suit his fancy--of a thousand feet ormore--many a time have I seen him do every difficult feat of trapezework ever done above the security of a net. 

Such was Donaldson, a man utterly fearless, but reckless only whenalone, of a steadfast, cool courage and resource when responsible forthe safety of others that made him the man out of a million best worthtrusting in any emergency where a bold heart and ready wit may avertdisaster. 

Donaldson's days were never dull. 

The day preceding our ascent his balloon was released with insufficientlifting power. As soon as he rose above neighboring roofs, a very highsoutheast wind caught him, and, before he had time to throw outballast, drove his basket against the flagstaff on the Gilsey Housewith such violence that the staff was broken, and the basketmomentarily upset, dumping two ballast bags to the Broadway sidewalkwhere they narrowly missed several pedestrians. 

That he himself was not dashed to death was a miracle. But to him thiswas no more than a bit unusual incident of the day's work. 

The reporters assigned as mates on this skylark in the _Barnum_ wereAlfred Ford, of the _Graphic_; Edmund Lyons, of the _Sun_; SamuelMacKeever, of the _Herald_; W. W. Austin, of the _World_ (every one ofthese good fellows now dead, alas!) and myself, representing the_Tribune_. 

Lyons, MacKeever, and myself were novices in ballooning, but the twoothers had scored their bit of aeronautic experience. Austin had madean ascent a year or two before at San Francisco, was swept out over thebay before he could make a landing, and, through some mishap, droppedinto the water midway of the bay and well out toward Golden Gate, wherehe was rescued by a passing boat. Ford had made several balloonvoyages, the most notable in 1873, in the great _Graphic_ balloon. 

After the voyage of the _Barnum_ was first announced and it becameknown that the _Tribune_ would have a pass, everybody on the staffwanted to go. For weeks it was the talk of the office. Even gravegraybeards of the editorial rooms were paying court for the preferenceto Mr. W. F. G. Shanks, that prince of an earlier generation of cityeditors, who of course controlled the assignment of the pass. But whenat length the pass came, the enthusiasm and anxiety for the distinctionwaned, and it became plain that the piece of paper "Good for One AerialTrip, " etc. , must go begging. 

At that time I was assistant night city editor, and a special detail tointerview the Man in the Moon was not precisely in the line of mynormal duties. I was therefore greatly surprised (to put itconservatively) when, the morning before the ascent, Mr. Shanks, inwhose family I was then living, routed me out of bed to say:

"See here, Ted, you know Barnum's balloon starts tomorrow on her trialfor the record, but what you don't know is that we are in a hole. Before the ticket came every one wanted to go, from John R. G. Hassarddown to the office boy. Now no one will go--all have funked it, and Isuppose you will want to follow suit!"

Thus diplomatically put, the hinted assignment was not to be refusedwithout too much personal chagrin. 

So it happened that about 3. 30 p. M. The next day I arrived at theHippodrome, loaded down with wraps and a heavy basket nigh burstingwith good things to eat and drink, which dear Mrs. Shanks had insistedon providing. 

The _Barnum_ was already filled with gas, tugging at her leash andswaying restlessly as if eager for the start. And right here, at firstsight of the great sphere, I felt more nearly a downright fright thanat any stage of the actual voyage; the balloon appeared such ahopelessly frail fabric to support even its own car and equipment. Thelight cord net enclosing the great gas-bag looked, aloft, where ittowered above the roof, little more substantial than a film of lace;and to ascend in that balloon appeared about as safe a proposition asto enmesh a lion in a cobweb. 

Already my four mates for the voyage were assembled about the basket, and Donaldson himself was busy with the last details of the equipment. My weighty lunch basket had from my mates even a heartier receptionthan I received, but their joy over the prospect of delving into itsgenerous depths was short-lived. The load as Donaldson had planned itwas all aboard, weight carefully adjusted to what he considered aproper excess lifting power to carry us safely up above any chance of acollision with another flagstaff, as on the day before above the GilseyHouse. Thus the basket and all its bounty (save only a small flask ofbrandy I smuggled into a hip pocket) were given to a passing acrobat. 

At 4 p. M. The old Hippodrome rang with applause; a brilliant equestrianact had just been finished. Suddenly the applause ceased and thatawful hush fell upon the vast audience which is rarely experiencedexcept in the presence of death or of some impending disaster! We hadbeen seen to enter the basket, and people held their breath. 

Released, the balloon bounded seven hundred feet the air, stoodstationary for a moment, and then drifted northwest before theprevailing wind. 

In this prodigious leap there was naught of the disagreeable sensationone experiences in a rapidly rising elevator. Instead it rather seemedthat we were standing motionless, stationary in space, and that theearth itself had gotten loose and was dropping away beneath us todepths unknown. Every cord and rope of the huge fabric was tenselytaut, the basket firm and solid beneath our feet. Indeed, the balloon, with nothing more substantial in her construction than cloth and twine, and hempen ropes and willow wands (the latter forming the basket), hasalways, while floating in mid-air free of the drag rope's tricks, therigid homogeneity of a rock, a solidity that quickly inspires the mosttimid with perfect confidence in her security. 

Ballast was thrown out by Donaldson, --a little. At Seventh Avenue andForty-second Street our altitude was 2, 000 feet. The great city laybeneath us like an unrolled scroll. White and dusty, the streetslooked like innumerable strips of Morse telegraph paper--the people thedots, the vehicles the dashes. Central Park, with its winding waters, was transformed into a superb mantle of dark green velvet splashed withsilver, worthy of a royal _fête_. Behind us lay the sea, a vast fieldof glittering silver. Before us lay a wide expanse of Jersey's hillsand dales that from our height appeared a plain, with many areddish-gray splash upon its verdant stretches that indicated a villageor a town. 

Above and about us lay an immeasurable space of which we were the onlytenants, and over which we began to feel a grand sense of dominion thatwrapped us as in royal ermine: if we were not lords of this aerialmanor, pray, then, who were? Beneath us, lay--home. Should we eversee it again? This thought I am sure came to all of us. I know itcame to me. But the perfect steadiness of the balloon won ourconfidence, and we soon gave ourselves up to the gratification of ourenviable position; and enviable indeed it was. For who has not enviedthe eagle his power to skim the tree-tops, to hover above Niagara, tocircle mountain peaks, to poise himself aloft and survey creation, orto mount into the zenith and gaze at the sun?

Indeed our sense of confidence became such that, while sitting on theedge of the basket to reach and pass Donaldson a rope he asked for, Ileaned so far over that the bottle of brandy resting in my hip pocketslipped out and fell into the Hudson. 

Oddly, Ford, who was the most experienced balloonist of the party afterDonaldson himself, seemed most nervous and timid, but it was naught butan expression of that constitutional trouble (dizziness) so many havewhen looking down from even the minor height of a step-ladder. In allthe long hours he was with us, I do not recall his once standing erectin the basket, and when others of us perched upon the basket's edge, hewould beg us to come down. But mind, there was no lack of starkcourage in Alfred Ford, sufficiently proved by the fact that he nevermissed a chance for an ascent. 

But safe? Confident? Why, before we were up ten minutes, Lyons andMacKeever were sitting on the edge of the basket, with one hand holdingto a stay, tossing out handfuls of small tissue paper circulars bearing"News from the Clouds. " Many-colored, these little circulars as theyfell beneath us looked like a flight of giant butter-flies, and we kepton throwing out handfuls of them until our pilot warned us we werewasting so much weight we should soon be out of easy view of the earth!Indeed, the balance of the balloon is so extremely fine that when asingle handful of these little tissue circulars was thrown out, increased ascent was shown on the dial of our aneroid barometer!

At 4. 30 p. M. We had drifted out over the Hudson at an altitude of 2, 500feet. Here Donaldson descended from the airy perch which he had beenoccupying since our start on the concentrating ring, when one of usasked how long he expected the cruise to last. He replied that hehoped to be able to sail the _Barnum_ at least three or four days. 

"But, " he added, "I shall certainly be unable, to carry all of you forso long a journey, and shall be compelled to drop you one by one. Soyou had best draw lots to settle whom I shall drop first, and in whatorder the rest shall follow. "

Sailing then 2, 500 feet above the earth, Lyons voiced a thought racingfrom my own brain for utterance when he blurted out: "What the deuce doyou mean by 'drop' us?" Indeed, the question must have been on threeother tongues as well, for Donaldson's reply, "Oh, descend to the earthand let you step out then, " was greeted by all five of us with a salvoof deep, lusty sighs of relief. 

Then we drew lots for the order of our going, MacKeever drawing first, Austin second, Lyons third, Ford fourth, and I fifth. 

Meantime, beneath us on the river vessels which from our height lookedlike the toy craft on the lake in Central Park were whistling a shrillsalute that, toned down by the distance, was really not unmusical. 

Having crossed the Hudson and swept above Weehawken, we found ourselvescruising northwest over the marshes of the Hackensack. 

As the heat of the declining sun lessened, our cooling gas contractedand the balloon sank steadily until at 5. 10 we were 250 feet above theearth and 100 feet of our great drag rope was trailing on the ground. Within hailing distance of people beneath us, a curious condition wasobserved. We could hear distinctly all they said, though we could notmake them understand a word; our voices had to fill a sphere of air;theirs, with the earth beneath them, only a hemisphere. Thus themodern megaphone is especially useful to aeronauts. 

Hereabouts our fun began. Many countrymen thought the balloon runningaway with us and tried to stop and save us--always by grasping the dragrope, bracing themselves, and trying literally to hold us; when theslack of the rope straightened, they performed somersaults such as ourpilot vowed no acrobat could equal. And yet the balance of the balloonis so fine that even a child of ten can pull one down, if only it hasstrength enough to withstand occasional momentary lifts off the ground. Occasionally one more clever would run and take a quick turn of therope about a gate or fence--and then spend the rest of the eveninggathering the scattered fragments and repairing the damage. 

And when there was not fun enough below, Donaldson himself would take ahand and put his steed through some of her fancy paces--as when, approaching a large lake, he told us to hold tightly to the stays, letout gas and dropped us, bang! upon the lake. Running at a speed oftwelve or fifteen miles an hour, we hit the water with a tremendousshock, bounded thirty or forty feet into the air, descended again andliterally skipped in great leaps along the surface of the water, precisely like a well-thrown "skipping stone. " Then out went ballastand up and on we went, no worse for the fun beyond a pretty thoroughwetting!

At 6. 20 p. M. We landed on the farm of Garrett Harper in Bergen County, twenty-six miles from New York. After drinking our fill of milk at thefarmhouse, we rose again and drifted north over Ramapo until, at 7. 30, a dead calm came upon us and we made another descent. We then foundthat we had landed near Bladentown on the farm of Miss CharlotteThompson, a charming actress of the day whose "Jane Eyre" and "Fanchon"are still pleasant memories to old theatre-goers. Loading our balloonwith stones to anchor it, our party paid her a visit and were cordiallyreceived. An invitation to join us hazarded by Donaldson, MissThompson accepted with delight. I do not know if she is still living, but it she is, she cannot have forgotten her half-hour's cruise in thegood airship _Barnum_, wafted silently by a gentle evening breeze, thelovely panorama beneath her half hid, half seen through the purple hazeof twilight. 

After landing Miss Thompson at 8. 18 we ascended for the night, for anight's bivouac among the stars. The moon rose early. We were soonsailing over the Highlands of the Hudson. Off in the east we could seethe river, a winding ribbon of silver. We were running low, barelymore than 200 feet high. Below us the great drag rope was hissingthrough meadows, roaring over fences, crashing through tree-tops. Andall night long we were continually ascending and descending, sinkinginto valleys and rising over hills, following closely the contours ofthe local topography. 

During the more equable temperature of night the balloon's height isgoverned by the drag rope. Leaving a range of hills and floating outover a valley, the weight of the drag pulls the balloon down until thesame length of rope is trailing through the valley that had beendragging on the hill. This habit of the balloon produces startlingeffects. Drifting swiftly toward a rocky precipitous hillside againstwhich it seems inevitable you must dash to your death, suddenly thetrailing drag rope reaches the lower slopes and you soar like a birdover the hill, often so low that the bottom of the basket swishesthrough the tree-tops. 

But, while useful in conserving the balloon's energy, the drag rope isa source of constant peril to aeronauts, of terror to people on theearth, and of damage to property. It has a nasty clinging habit, winding round trees or other objects, that may at any moment upsetbasket and aeronauts. On this trip our drag rope tore sections out ofscores of fences, upset many haystacks, injured horses and cattle thattried to run across it, whipped off many a chimney, broke telegraphwires, and seemed to take malicious delight in working some havoc witheverything it touched. 

At ten o'clock we sighted Cozzen's Hotel, and shortly drifted acrossthe parade ground of West Point, its huge battlemented gray wallsmaking one fancy he was looking down into the inner court of some greatmediaeval castle. Then we drifted out over the Hudson toward ColdSpring until, caught by a different current, we were swept along thecourse of the river. 

As we sailed over mid-stream and two hundred feet above it, with thetall cliffs and mysterious, dark recesses of the Highlands on eitherhand, the waters turned to a livid gray under the feeble light of thewaning moon. No part of our voyage was more impressive, no scene moreawe-inspiring. It was a region of such weird lights and gruesomeshadows as no fancy could people with aught but gaunt goblins and dreaddemons, come down to us through generations untold, an unspent legacyof terror, from half-savage, superstitious ancestors. 

Suddenly Ford spoke in a low voice: "Boys, I was in nine or ten battlesof the Civil War, from Gaines's Mill to Gettysburg, but in none of themwas there a scene which impressed me as so terrible as this, nosituation that seemed to me so threatening of irresistible perils. "

Nearing Fishkill at eleven, a land breeze caught and whisked us offeastward. At midnight we struck the town of Wappinger's Falls--andstruck it hard. Our visitation is doubtless remembered there yet. Thetown was in darkness and asleep. We were running low before a stiffbreeze, half our drag rope on the ground. The rope began to roaracross roofs and upset chimneys with shrieks and crashes that set thefolk within believing the end of the world had come. Instantly thestreets were filled with flying white figures and the air with men'scurses and women's screams. Three shots were fired beneath us. Two ofour fellows said they heard the whistle of the balls, so Donaldsonthought it prudent to throw out ballast and rise out of range. 

Here the moon left us and we sailed on throughout the remainder of thenight in utter darkness and without any extraordinary incident, all butthe watch lying idly in the bottom of the basket viewing the stars andwondering what new mischief the drag rope might be planning. 

The only duty of the watch was to lighten ship upon too near descent tothe earth, and for this purpose a handful of Hippodrome circularsusually proved sufficient. Indeed, only eight pounds of ballast wereused from the time we left Miss Thompson till dawn, barring a half-sackspent in getting out of range of the Wappinger's Falls sportsmen, whoseemed to want to bag us. 

Ford and Austin were assigned as the lookout from 12. 00 to 2. 00, Lyonsand myself from 2. 00 to 3. 00, and Donaldson and MacKeever from 3. 00 to4. 00. 

From midnight till 3. 00 a. M. Donaldson slept as peaceful as a baby, curled up in the basket with a sandbag for a pillow. The rest of usslept little through the night and talked less, each absorbed in thereflections and speculations inspired by our novel experience. 

At the approach of dawn we had the most unique and extraordinaryexperience ever given to man. The balloon was sailing low in a deepvalley. To the east of us the Berkshires rose steeply to summitsprobably fifteen hundred feet above us. Beneath us a little villagelay, snuggled cosily between two small meeting brooks, all dim underthe mists of early morning and the shadows of the hills. No flush ofdawn yet lit the sky. Donaldson had been consulting his watch, suddenly he rose and called, pointing eastward across the range:

"Watch, boys! Look there!"

He then quickly dumped overboard half the contents of a ballast bag. Flying upward like an arrow, the balloon soon shot up above themountain-top, when, lo! a miracle. The phenomenon of sunrise wasreversed! We our very selves instead had risen on the sun! There hestood, full and round, peeping at us through the trees crowning adistant Berkshire hill, as if startled by our temerity. 

Shortly thereafter, when we had descended to our usual level and wererunning swiftly before a stiff breeze over a rocky hillside, Donaldsonyelled:

"Hang on, boys, for your lives!"

The end of the drag rope had gotten a hitch about a large tree limb. Luckily Donaldson had seen it in time to warn us, else we had therefinished our careers. We had barely time to seize the stays when therope tautened with a shock that nearly turned the basket upside down, spilled out our water-bucket and some ballast, left MacKeever andmyself hanging in space by our hands, and the other four on the lowerside of the basket, scrambling to save themselves. Instantly, ofcourse, the basket righted and dropped back beneath us. 

And then began a terrible struggle. 

The pressure of the wind bore us down within a hundred feet of theragged rocks. Groaning under the strain, the rope seemed ready tosnap. Like a huge leviathan trapped in a net, the gas-bag writhed, twisted, bulged, shrank, gathered into a ball and sprang fiercely out. The loose folds of canvas sucked up until half the netting stood empty, and then fold after fold darted out and back with all the angry menaceof a serpent's tongue and with the ominous crash of musketry. 

It seemed the canvas must inevitably burst and we be dashed to death. But Donaldson was cool and smiling, and, taking the only precautionpossible, stood with a sheath-knife ready to cut away the drag rope andrelieve is of its weight in case our canvas burst. 

Happily the struggle was brief. The limb that held us snapped, and theballoon sprang forward in mighty bounds that threw us off our feet andtossed the great drag rope about like a whip-lash. But we were free, safe, and our stout vessel soon settled down to the velocity of thewind. 

By this time we all were beginning to feel hungry, for we had suppedthe night before in mid-air from a lunch basket that held moredelicacies than substantials. So Donaldson proposed a descent andbegan looking for a likely place. At last he chose a little village, which upon near approach we learned lay in Columbia County of our owngood State. 

We called to two farmers to pull us down, no easy task in the ratherhigh wind then blowing. They grasped the rope and braced themselves ashad others the night before, and presently were flying through the airin prodigious if ungraceful somersaults. Amazed but unhurt, they againseized the rope and got a turn about a stout board fence, only to see asection or two of the fence fly into the air as if in pursuit of us. 

Presently the heat of the rising sun expanded our gas and sent us upagain 2, 000 feet, making breakfast farther off than ever. Thus, itbeing clear that we must sacrifice either our stomachs or our gas, Donaldson held open the safety valve until we were once more safelylanded on mother earth, but not until after we had received a prettysevere pounding about, for such a high wind blew that the anchor wasslow in holding. 

This landing was made at 5. 24 a. M. On the farm of John W. Coons nearthe village of Greenport, four miles from Hudson City, and about onehundred and thirty miles from New York. 

Here our pilot decided our vessel must be lightened of two men, andthus the lot drawn the night before compelled us to part, regretfully, with MacKeever of the _Herald_, and Austin of the _World_. Ford, however, owing allegiance to an afternoon paper, the _Graphic_, andalways bursting with honest journalistic zeal for a "beat, " saw anopportunity to win satisfaction greater even than that of keeping onwith us. So he, too, left us here, with the result that the _Graphic_published a full story of the voyage up to this point, Saturdayafternoon, the twenty-fifth, the _Herald_ and the _World_ trailed alongfor second place in their Sunday editions, while _Sun_ and _Tribune_readers had to wait till Monday morning for such "News from the Clouds"as Lyons and I had to give them, for wires were not used as freely thenas now. 

Our departing mates brought us a rare good breakfast from Mr. Coons'generous kitchen--a fourteen-quart tin pail well-nigh filled with goodthings, among them two currant pies on yellow earthen plates, giganticin size, pale of crust, though anything but anaemic of contents. Lyonsfinished nearly the half of one before our reascent, to his sorrow, forscarcely were we off the earth before he developed a colic that seemedto interest him more, right up to the finish of the trip, than thescenery. 

Bidding our mates good-bye, we prepared to reascend. Many farmers hadbeen about us holding to our ropes and leaning on the basket, and laterwe realized we had not taken in sufficient ballast to offset the weightof the three men who had left us. 

Released, the balloon sprang upward at a pace that all but took ourbreath away. Instantly the earth disappeared beneath us. We sawDonaldson pull the safety valve wide open, draw his sheath knife readyto cut the drag rope, standing rigid, with his eyes riveted upon theaneroid barometer. The hand of the barometer was sweeping across thedial at a terrific rate. I glanced at Donaldson and saw him smile. Then I looked back the barometer and saw the hand had stopped--at10, 200 feet! How long we were ascending we did not know. Certain itis that the impressions described were all there was time for, and thatwhen Donaldson turned and spoke we saw his lips move but could hear nosound. Our speed had been such that the pressure of the air upon thetympanum of the ear left us deaf for some minutes. We had made a dashof two miles into cloudland and had accomplished it, we three firmlybelieved, in little more than a minute. 

Presently Donaldson observed the anchor and grapnel had come up badlyclogged with sod, and a good heavy tug he and I had of it to pull themin, for Lyons was still much too busy with his currant pie to help us. Nor indeed were the currant pies yet done with us, for at the end ofour tug at the anchor rope, I found| had been kneeling very preciselyin the middle of pie No. 2, and had contrived to absorb most of it intothe knees of my trousers. Thus at the end of the day, come to Saratogaafter all shops were closed, I had to run the gauntlet of the porch andoffice crowd of visitors at the United States Hotel in a condition thatonly needed moccasins and a war bonnet to make me a tolerable imitationof an Indian. 

We remained aloft at an altitude of one or two and one half miles forthree hours and a half, stayed there until the silence becameintolerable, until the buzz of a fly or the croak of a frog would havebeen music to our ears. Here was _absolute silence_, the silence ofthe grave and death, a silence never to be experienced by living man inany terrestrial condition. 

Occasionally the misty clouds in which we hung enshrouded partedbeneath us and gave us glimpses of distant earth, opened and disclosedlandscapes of infinite beauty set in grey nebulous frames. Once wepassed above a thunderstorm, saw the lightning play beneath us, feltour whole fabric tremble at its shock--and were glad enough when we hadleft it well behind. Seen from a great height, the earth looked to bea vast expanse of dark green velvet, sometimes shaded to a deeper hueby cloudlets floating beneath the sun, splashed here with the silverand there with the gold garniture reflected from rippling waters. 

Toward noon we descended beneath the region of clouds into the realm oflight and life, and found ourselves hovering above the Mountain Houseof the Catskills. And thereabouts we drifted in cross-currents untilnearly 4. 00 p. M. , when a heavy southerly gale struck us and swept usrapidly northward past Albany at a pace faster than I have evertravelled on a railway. 

We still had ballast enough left to assure ten or twelve hours moretravel. But we did not like our course. The prospects were that wewould end our voyage in the wilderness two hundred or more miles northof Ottawa. So we rose to 12, 500 feet, seeking an easterly or westerlycurrent, but without avail. We could not escape the southerly gale. Prudence, therefore, dictated a landing before nightfall. Landing inthe high gale was both difficult and dangerous, and was notaccomplished until we were all much bruised and scratched in the oakthicket Donaldson chose for our descent. 

Thus the first voyage of the good airship _Barnum_ ended at 6. 07 p. M. On the farm of E. R. Young, nine miles north of Saratoga. 

A year later the _Barnum_ rose for the last time--from Chicago--and tothis day the fate of the stanch craft and her brave captain remains anunsolved mystery. 

CHAPTER VII

THE EVOLUTION OF A TRAIN ROBBER

Life was never dull in Grant County, New Mexico, in the early eighties. There was always something doing--usually something the averagelaw-abiding, peace-loving citizen would have been glad enough to dispensewith. To say that life then and there was insecure is to describealtogether too feebly a state of society and an environment whereinDeath, in one violent form or another, was ever abroad, seldom long idle, always alert for victims. 

When the San Carlos Apaches, under Victoria, Ju, or Geronimo, were notout gunning for the whites, the whites were usually out gunning for oneanother over some trivial difference. Everybody carried a gun and wasmore or less handy with it. Indeed, it was a downright bad plan to carryone unless you were handy. For with gunning--the game most played, ifnot precisely the most popular--every one was supposed to be familiarwith the rules and to know how to play; and in a game where every hand issure to be "called, " no one ever suspected another of being out on asheer "bluff. " Thus the coroner invariably declared it a case of suicidewhere one man drew a gun on another and failed to use it. 

This highly explosive state of society was not due to the fact that therewere few peaceable men in the country for there were many of them, men ofcharacter and education, honest, and as law-abiding as their peculiarenvironment would permit. Moreover, the percentage of professional "badmen"--and this was a profession then--was comparatively small. It wasdue rather to the fact that every one, no matter how peaceable hisinclinations, was compelled to carry arms habitually for self-defence, for the Apaches were constantly raiding outside the towns, and whiteoutlaws inside. And with any class of men who constantly carry arms, italways falls out that a weapon is the arbiter of even those minorpersonal differences which in the older and more effete civilization ofthe East are settled with fists or in a petty court. 

The prevailing local contempt for any man who was too timid to "put up agun fight" when the etiquette of a situation demanded it, was expressedlocally in the phrase that one "could take a corncob and a lightning bugand make him run himself to death trying to get away. " It is clearlyunnecessary to explain why the few men of this sort in the community didnot occupy positions of any particular prominence. Their opinions didnot seem to carry as much weight as those of other gentlemen who wereknown to be notably quick to draw and shoot. 

I even recall many instances where the pistol entered into the pastimesof the community. One instance will stand telling:

A game of poker (rather a stiff one) had been going on for about afortnight in the Red Light Saloon. The same group of men, five or sixold friends, made up the game every day. All had varying success butone, who lost every day. And, come to think of it, his luck varied too, for some days he lost more than others. While he did not say much abouthis losings, it was observed that temper was not improving. 

This sort of thing went on for thirteen days. The thirteenth day theloser happened to come in a little late, after the game was started. Italso happened that on this particular day one of the players had broughtin a friend, a stranger in the town, to join the game, When the losercame in, therefore, he was introduced to the stranger and sat down. Ahand was dealt him. He started to play it, stopped, rapped on the tableattention, and said:

"Boys, I want to make a personal explanation to this yere stranger. Stranger, this yere game is sure a tight wad for a smoothbore. I'm loserin it, an' a heavy one, for exactly thirteen days, and these boys allunderstand that the first son of a gun I find I can beat, I'm going totake a six-shooter an' make him play with me a week. Now, if you has noobjections to my rules, you can draw cards. "

Luckily for the stranger, perhaps, the thirteenth was as bad for theloser as its predecessors. 

Outside the towns there were only three occupations in Grant County inthose years, cattle ranching, mining and fighting Apaches, all of a sortto attract and hold none but the sturdiest types of real manhood, meninured to danger and reckless of it. In the early eighties nofaint-heart came to Grant County unless he blundered in--and any suchwere soon burning the shortest trail out. These men were never betterdescribed in a line than when, years ago, at a banquet of CaliforniaForty-niners, Joaquin Miller, the poet of the Sierras, speaking of thesplendid types the men of forty-nine represented, said:

"The cowards never started, and all the weak died on the road!"

Within the towns, also, there were only three occupations: first, supplying the cowmen and miners whatever they needed, merchandise wet anddry, law mundane and spiritual, for although neither court nor churcheswere working overtime, they were available for the few who had any usefor them; second, gambling, at monte, poker, or faro; and, third, figuring how to slip through the next twenty-four hours without getting aheavier load of lead in one's system than could be conveniently carried, or how to stay happily half shot and yet avoid coming home on a shutter, unhappily shot, or, having an active enemy on hand, how best to "get" him. 

Thus, while plainly the occupations of Grant County folk were somewhatlimited in variety, in the matter of interest and excitement their gameswere wide open and the roof off. 

Nor did all the perils to life in Grant County lurk within the burnishedgrooves of a gun barrel, according to certain local points of view, foralways it is the most unusual that most alarms, as when one of my cowboys"allowed he'd go to town for a week, " and was back on the ranch theevening of the second day. Asked why he was back so soon, he replied:

"Well, fellers, one o' them big depot water tanks burnt plumb up thismawnin', an' reckonin' whar that'd happen a feller might ketch fireanywhere in them little old town trails, I jes' nachally pulled myfreight for camp!"

But a cowboy is the subject of this story--Kit Joy. His genus, andstriking types of the genus, have been cleverly described, especially byLewis and by Adams (some day I hope to meet Andy) that I need say littleof it here. Still, one of the cowboy's most notable and most admirabletraits has not been emphasized so much as it deserves: I mean hisdownright reverence and respect for womanhood. No real cowboy everwilfully insulted any woman, or lost a chance to resent any insultoffered by another. Indeed, it was an article of the cowboy creed neverbroken, and all well knew it. So it happened that when one day a cowboy, in a crowded car of a train held up by bandits, was appealed to by anEastern lady in the next seat, --

"Heavens! I have four hundred dollars in my purse which I cannot affordto lose; please, sir, tell me how I can hide it. "

Instantly came the answer:

"Shucks! miss, stick it in yer sock; them fellers has nerve enough tohold up a train an' kill any feller that puts up a fight, but nary one o'them has nerve enough to go into a woman's sock after her bank roll!"

Kit Joy was a cowboy working on the X ranch on the Gila. He was ayoungster little over twenty. It was said of him that he had left behindhim in Texas more or less history not best written in black ink, butwhether this was true or not I do not know. Certain it is that he was areckless dare-devil, always foremost in the little amenities cowboysloved to indulge in when they came to town such as shooting out thelights in saloons and generally "shelling up the settlement, "--whichmeant taking a friendly shot at about everything that showed up on thestreets. Nevertheless, Kit in the main was thoroughly good-natured andamiable. 

Early in his career in Silver City it was observed that perhaps his mostdistinguishing trait was curiosity. Ultimately his curiosity got himinto trouble, as it does most people who indulge it. His first displayof curiosity in Silver was a very great surprise, even to those who knewhim best. It was also a disappointment. 

A tenderfoot, newly arrived, appeared on the streets one day inknickerbockers and stockings. Kit was in town and was observed watchingthe tenderfoot. To the average cowboy a silk top hat was like a red flagto a bull, so much like it in fact that the hat was usually lucky toescape with less than half a dozen holes through it. But here in theseknee-breeches and stockings was something much more bizarre andexasperating than a top hat, from a cowboy's point of view. The effecton Kit was therefore closely watched by the bystanders. 

No one fancied for a moment that Kit would do less than undertake toteach the tenderfoot "the cowboy's hornpipe, " not a particularly gracefulbut a very quick step, which is danced most artistically when a bystanderis shooting at the dancer's toes. Indeed, the ball was expected to openearly. To every one's surprise and disappointment, it did not. Instead, Kit dropped in behind the tenderfoot and began to follow him abouttown--followed him for at least an hour. Every one thought he wasstudying up some more unique penalty for the tenderfoot. But they werewrong, all wrong. 

As a matter of fact. Kit was so far consumed with curiosity that heforgot everything else, forgot even to be angry. At last, when he couldstand it no longer, he walked up to the tenderfoot, detained him gentlyby the sleeve and asked in a tone of real sympathy and concern: "Say, mistah! 'Fo' God, won't yo' mah let yo' wear long pants?"

Naturally the tenderfoot's indignation was aroused and expressed, butKit's sympathies for a man condemned to such a juvenile costume were sofar stirred that he took no notice of it. 

Kit was a typical cowboy, industrious, faithful, uncomplaining, of thegood old Southern Texas breed. In the saddle from daylight till dark, riding completely down to the last jump in them two or three horses aday, it never occurred to him even to growl when a stormy night, withthunder and lightning, prolonged his customary three-hour's turn at nightguard round the herd to an all-night's vigil. He took it as a matter ofcourse. And his rope and running iron were ever ready, and his weathereye alert for a chance to catch and decorate with the X brand any straycattle that ventured within his range. This was a peculiar phase ofcowboy character. While not himself profiting a penny by these inroadson neighboring herds, he was never quite so happy as when he had addedanother maverick to the herd bearing his employer's brand, an increasealways obtained at the expense of some of the neighbors. 

One night on the Spring round-up, the day's work finished, supper eaten, the night horses caught and saddled, the herd in hand driven into a closecircle and bedded down for the night in a little glade in the hills, Kitwas standing first relief. The day's drive had been a heavy one, theherd was well grazed and watered in the late afternoon, the night wasfine; and so the twelve hundred or fifteen hundred cattle in the herdwere lying down quietly, giving no trouble to the night herders. Kit, therefore, was jogging slowly round the herd, softly jingling his spursand humming some rude love song of the sultry sort cowboys never tire ofrepeating. The stillness of the night superinduced reflection. Withnaught to interrupt it, Kit's curiosity ran farther afield than usual. 

Recently down at Lordsburg, with the outfit shipping a train load ofbeeves, he had seen the Overland Express empty its load of passengers forsupper, a crowd of well-dressed men and women, the latter brilliant withthe bright colors cowboys love and with glittering gems. To-night he gotto thinking about them. 

Wherever did they all come from? How ever did they get so much money?Surely they must come from 'Frisco. No lesser place could possibly turnout such magnificence. Then Kit let his fancy wander off into crudecowboy visions of what 'Frisco might be like, for he had never seen acity. 

"What a buster of a town 'Frisco must be!" Kit soliloquized. "Must havemore'n a hundred saloons an' more slick gals than the X brand hasheifers. What a lot o' fun a feller could have out thar! Only I reckonthem gals wouldn't look at him more'n about onct unless he was well fixedfor dough. Reckon they don't drink nothin' but wine out thar, nor eatnothin' but oysters. An' wine an' oysters costs money, oodles o' money!That's the worst of it! S'pose it'd take more'n a month's pay to git afeller out thar on the kiars, an' then about three months' pay to git tostay a week. Reckon that's jes' a little too rich for Kit's blood. But, jiminy! Wouldn't I like to have a good, big, fat bank roll an' go thar!"

Here was a crisis suddenly come in Kit's life, although he did not thenrealize it. It is entirely improbable he had ever before felt the wantof money. His monthly pay of thirty-five dollars enabled him to sport apearl-handled six-shooter and silver-mounted bridle bit and spurs, kepthim well clothed, and gave him an occasional spree in town. What morecould any reasonable cowboy ask?

But to-night the very elements and all nature were against him. Even alight dash of rain to rouse the sleeping herd, or a hungry cow strayingout into the darkness, would have been sufficient to divert and probablysave him; but nothing happened. The night continued fine. The herdslept on. And Kit was thus left an easy prey, since covetousness hadcome to aid curiosity in compassing his ruin. 

"A bank roll! A big, fat, full-grown, long-horned, four-year-old roll!_That's_ what a feller wants to do 'Frisco right. Nothin' less. Butwhar's it comin' from, an' when? S'pose I brands a few mavericks an'gits a start on my own? No use, Kit; that's too slow! Time you got aproper roll you'd be so old the skeeters wouldn't even bite you, to saynothin' of a gal a-kissin' of you. 'Pears like you ain't liable to gitthar very quick, Kit, 'less you rustles mighty peart somewhar. Talkin'of rustlin', what's the matter with that anyway?"

A cold glitter came in Kit's light blue eyes. The muscles of his lean, square jaws worked nervously. His right hand dropped caressingly on thehandle of his pistol. 

"That's the proper caper, Kit. Why didn't you think of it before?Rustle, damn you, an', ef you're any good, mebbe so you can git to'Frisco afore frost comes, or anywhere else you likes. Rustle! Byjiminy, I've got it; I'll jes' stand up that thar Overland Express. Themfellers what rides on it's got more'n they've got any sort o' use for. What's the matter with makin' 'em whack up with a feller! 'Coursethey'll kick, an' thar'll be a whole passle o' marshals an' sheriffs outafter you, but what o' that? Reckon Old Blue'll carry you out o' range. He's the longest-winded chunk o' horse meat in these parts. Then you'llhave to stay out strictly on the scout fer a few weeks, till they gitstired o' huntin' of you, so you can slip out o' this yere neck o' woods'thout leavin' a trail. 

"An' Lord! but won't it be fun! 'Bout as much fun, I reckon, as doin''Frisco. Won't them tenderfeet beller when they hears the gunsa-crackin' an' the boys a-yellin'! Le' see; wonder who I'd better takealong?"

Scruples? Kit had none. Bred and raised a merry freebooter on theunbranded spoils of the cattle range, it was no long step from stealing amaverick to holding up a train. 

With a man of perhaps any other class, a plan to engage in a new businessenterprise of so much greater magnitude than any of those he had beenaccustomed to would have been made the subject of long consideration. Not so with Kit. Cowboy life compels a man to think quickly, and oftento act quicker than he finds it convenient to think. The hand skilled tocatch the one possible instant when the wide, circling loop of the lariatmay be successfully thrown, and the eye and finger trained to accuratesnap-shooting, do not well go with a mind likely to be long in reaching aresolution or slow to execute one. 

So Kit at once began to cast about for two or three of the right sort ofboys to join him. Three were quickly chosen out of his own and aneighboring outfit. They were Mitch Lee and Taggart, two white cowboysof his own type and temper, and George Cleveland, a negro, known as adesperate fellow, game for anything. It needed no great argument tosecure the co-operation of these men. A mere tip of the lark and theloot to be had was enough. 

The boys saw their respective bosses. They "allowed they'd lay off for afew days and go to town. " So they were paid off, slung their Winchesterson their saddles, mounted their favorite horses, and rode away. They metin Silver City, coming in singly. There they purchased a few provisions. Then they separated and rode singly out of town, to rendezvous at acertain point on the Miembres River. 

The point of attack chosen was the little station of Gage (tended by alone operator), on the Southern Pacific Railway west of Deming, a pointthen reached by the west-bound express at twilight. The evening of thesecond day after leaving the Gila, Kit and his three compadres rode intoGage. One or two significant passes with a six-shooter hypnotized thestation agent into a docile tool. A dim red light glimmered away off inthe east. As the minutes passed, it grew and brightened fast. Then afaint, confused murmur came singing over the rails to the ears of thewaiting bandits. The light brightened and grew until it looked like agreat dull red sun, and then the thunder of the train was heard. 

Time for action had come!

The agent was made to signal the engineer to stop. With lever reversedand air brakes on, the train was nearly stopped when the engine reachedthe station. But seeing the agent surrounded by a group of armed men, the engineer shut off the air and sought to throw his throttle open. Hispurpose discovered, a quick snapshot from Mitch Lee laid him dead, and, springing into the cab, Mitch soon persuaded the fireman to stop thetrain. 

Instantly a fusillade of pistol shots and a mad chorus of shrill cowboyyells broke out, that terrorized train crew and passengers into docility. 

Within fifteen minutes the express car was sacked, the postal car gutted, the passengers were laid under unwilling contribution, and Kit and hispals were riding northward into the night, heavily loaded with loot. Riding at great speed due north, the party soon reached the maintravelled road up the Miembres, in whose loose drifting sands they knewtheir trail could not be picked up. Still forcing the pace, they reachedthe rough hill-country east of Silver early in the night, _cached_ theirplunder safely, and a little after midnight were carelessly bucking amonte game in a Silver City saloon. The next afternoon they quietly rodeout of town and joined their respective outfits, to wait until theexcitement should blow over. 

Of course the telegraph soon started the hue and cry. Officers fromSilver, Deming, and Lordsburg were soon on the ground, led by HarveyWhitehill, the famous old sheriff of Grant County. But of clue there wasnone. Naturally the station agent had come safely out of his trance, butwith that absence of memory of what had happened characteristic of thehypnotized. The trail disappeared in the sands of the Miembres road. Shrewd old Harvey Whitehill was at his wits' end. 

Many days passed in fruitless search. At last, riding one day across theplain at some distance from the line of flight north from Gage, Whitehillfound a fragment of a Kansas newspaper. As soon as he saw it heremembered that a certain merchant of Silver came from the Kansas townwhere this paper was published. Hurrying back to Silver, Whitehill sawthe merchant, who identified the paper and said that he undoubtedly wasits only subscriber in Silver. Asked if he had given a copy to any one, he finally recalled that some time before, about the period of therobbery, he had wrapped in a piece this newspaper some provisions he hadsold to a negro named Cleveland and a white man he did not know. 

Here was the clue, and Whitehill was quick to follow it. Meeting a negroon the street, he pretended to want to hire a cook. The negro had a job. Well, did he not know some one else? By the way, where was GeorgeCleveland?

"Oh, boss, he done left de Gila dis week an' gone ober to Socorro, " wasthe answer. 

Two days later Whitehill found Cleveland in a Socorro restaurant, got the"drop" on him, told him his pals were arrested and had confessed thatthey were in the robbery, but that he, Cleveland, had killed EngineerWebster. This brought the whole story. 

"'Foh God, boss, I nebber killed dat engineer. Mitch Lee done it, an'him an' Taggart an' Kit Joy, dey done lied to you outrageous. "

Within a few days, caught singly, in ignorance of Cleveland's arrest, andtaken completely by surprise, Joy, Taggart, and Lee were captured on theGila and jailed, along with Cleveland, at Silver City, held to await theaction of the next grand jury. 

But strong walls did not a prison make adequate hold these men. Beforemany weeks passed, an escape was planned and executed. Two otherprisoners, one a man wanted in Arizona, and the other a Mexicanhorse-thief, were allowed to participate in the outbreak. 

Taken unawares, their guard was seized and bound with little difficulty. Quickly arming themselves in the jail office, these six desperate mendashed out of the jail and into a neighboring livery stable, seizedhorses, mounted, and rode madly out of town, firing at every one insight. In Silver in those days no gentleman's trousers fittedcomfortably without a pistol stuck in the waistband. Therefore, theflying desperadoes received as hot a fire as they sent. By this fireCleveland's horse was killed before they got out of town, but one of hispals stopped and picked him up. 

Instantly the town was in an uproar of excitement. Every one knew thatthe capture of these men meant a fight to the death. As usual in suchemergencies, there were more talkers than fighters. Nevertheless, sixmen were in pursuit as soon as they could saddle and mount. The first tostart was the driver of an express wagon, a man named Jackson, who cuthis horse loose from the traces, mounted bareback, and flew out of townonly a few hundred yards behind the prisoners. Six others, led byCharlie Shannon and La Fer, were not far behind Jackson. The men of thisparty were greatly surprised to find that a Boston boy of twenty, atenderfoot lately come to town, who had scarcely ever ridden a horse orfired a rifle, was among their number, well mounted and armed--a man witha line of ancestry worth while, and himself a worthy survival of the bestof it. 

The chase was hot. Jackson was well in advance, engaging the fugitiveswith his pistol, while the fugitives were returning the fire and throwingup puffs of dust all about Jackson. Behind spurred Shannon and his party. 

At length the pursuit gained. Five miles out of Silver, in the PiñonHills to the northwest, too close pressed to run farther, the fugitivessprang from their horses and ran into a low post oak thicket coveringabout two acres, where, crouching, they could not be seen. The sixpursuers sent back a man to guide the sheriff's party and hastenreinforcements, and began shelling the thicket and surrounding it. A fewminutes later Whitehill rode up with seven more men, and the thicket waseffectually surrounded. To the surprise of every one, a hot fire pouredinto the thicket failed to bring a single answering shot. Whitehill wasno man to waste ammunition on such chance firing, so he ordered a charge. His little command rode into and through the thicket at full speed, onlyto find their quarry gone, gone all save one. The Mexican lay dead, shotthrough the head! Kit's party had dashed through the thicket withoutstopping, on to another, and their trail was shortly found leading up arugged cañon of the Pinos Altos Range. 

Whitehill divided his party. Three men followed up the bottom of thecañon on foot, five mounted flankers were thrown out on either side. Atlast, high up the cañon, Kit's party was found at bay, lying in somethick underbrush. It was a desperate position to attack, but thepursuers did not hesitate. Dismounting, they advanced on foot withrifles cocked, but with all the caution of a hunter trailing a woundedgrizzly. The negro opened the ball at barely twenty yards' range with ashot that drove a hole through the Boston boy's hat. Dropping at firstwith surprise, for he had not seen the negro till the instant he rose tofire, the Boston boy returned a quick shot that happened to hit the negrojust above the centre of the forehead and rolled him over dead. 

Approaching from another direction, Shannon was first to draw Taggart'sfile. Taggart was lying hidden in the brush; Shannon standing out in theopen. Shot after shot they exchanged, until presently a ball struck theearth in front of Taggart's face and filled his eyes full of gravel andsand. Blinded for the time, he called for quarter, and came out of thebrush with his hands up and another man with him. Asked for his pistol, Taggart replied:

"Damn you, that's empty, or I'd be shooting yet. "

Meantime, Whitehill was engaging Mitch Lee. In a few minutes, shotthrough and helpless, Lee surrendered. 

It was quick, hot work!

All but Kit were now killed or captured. He had been separated from hisparty, and La Fer was seen trailing him on a neighboring hillside. 

At this juncture the sheriff detailed Shannon to return to town and get awagon to bring in the dead and wounded, while he started to join La Ferin pursuit of Kit. 

An hour later, as Shannon was leaving town with a wagon to return to thescene of the fight, a mob of men, led by a shyster lawyer, joined him andswore they proposed to lynch the prisoners. This was too much forShannon's sense of frontier proprieties. So, rising in his wagon, hemade a brief but effective speech. 

"Boys, none of our men are hurt, although it is no fault of ourprisoners. A dozen of us have gone out and risked our lives to capturethese men. You men have not seen fit, for what motives we will notdiscuss, to help us. Now, I tell you right here that any who want cancome, but the first man to raise a hand against a prisoner I'll kill. "

Shannon's return escort was small. 

But once more back in the hills of the Pinos Altos, Shannon found a stormraised he could not quell, even if his own sympathies had not driftedwith it when he learned its cause. His friend La Fer lay dead, filledfull of buckshot by Kit before Whitehill's reinforcements had reachedhim, while Kit had slipped away through the underbrush, over rocks thatleft no trail. 

La Fer's death maddened his friends. There was little discussion. Onlyone opinion prevailed. Taggart and Lee must die. 

Nothing was known of the prisoner wanted in Arizona, so he was spared. 

Taggart and Lee were put in the wagon, the former tightly bound, thelatter helpless from his wound. Short rope halters barely five feet longwere stripped from the horses, knotted round the prisoners' necks, andfastened to the limb of a juniper tree. Taggart climbed to the highwagon seat, took a header and broke his neck. The wagon was then pulledaway and Lee strangled. 

With Cleveland, Lee, and Taggart dead, Engineer Webster and La Fer werefairly well avenged. But Kit was still out, known as the leader and theman who shot La Fer, and for days the hills were full of men hunting him. Hiding in the rugged, thickly timbered hills of the Gila, taking neededfood at night, at the muzzle of his gun, from some isolated ranch, he washard to capture. 

Had Kit chosen to mount himself and ride out of the country, he mighthave escaped for good. But this he would not do. Dominated still by thefatal curiosity and covetousness that first possessed him, later masteredhim, and then drove him into crime, bound to repossess himself of hishidden treasure and go out to see the world, Kit would not leave theGila. He was alone, unaided, with no man left his friend, with all menon the alert to capture or to kill him, the unequal contest neverthelesslasted for many weeks. 

There was only one man Kit at all trusted, a "nester" (small ranchman)named Racketty Smith. One day, looking out from a leafy thicket in whichhe lay hid, saw Racketty going along the road. A lonely outcast, cravingthe sound of a human voice, believing Racketty at least neutral, Kithailed him and approached. As he drew near, Racketty covered him withhis rifle and ordered him to surrender. Surprised, taken entirelyunawares, Kit started to jump for cover, when Racketty fired, shatteredhis right leg and brought him to earth. To spring upon and disarm Kitwas the work of an instant. 

Kit was sentenced to imprisonment at Santa Fe. A few years ago, havinggained three years by good behavior, Kit was released, after havingserved fourteen years. 

However Kit may still hanker for "a big, fat, four-year-old, long-hornedbank roll, " and whatever may be his curiosity to "do 'Frisco proper, " itis not likely he will make any more history as a train robber, for atheart Kit was always a better "good man" than "bad man. "

CHAPTER VIII

CIRCUS DAY AT MANCOS

Cowboys were seldom respecters of the feelings of their fellows. Fewtopics were so sacred or incidents so grave they were not made thesubject of the rawest jests. Leading a life of such stirring adventurethat few days passed without some more or less serious mishap, recklessof life, unheedful alike of time and eternity, they made the smallesttrifles and the biggest tragedies the subjects of chaff and badinagetill the next diverting occurrence. But to the Cross Cañon outfit MatBarlow's love for Netty Nevins was so obviously a downright worship, anall-absorbing, dominating cult, that, in a way, and all unknown to her, she became the nearest thing to a religion the Cross Cañonites ever had. 

Eight years before Mat had come among them a green tenderfoot from aSouth Missouri village, picked up in Durango by Tom McTigh, theforeman, on a glint of the eye and set of the jaw that suggestedworkable material. Nor was McTigh mistaken. Mat took to range worklike a duck to water. Within a year he could rope and tie a mossbackwith the best, and in scraps with Mancos Jim's Pah-Ute horse raidershad proved himself as careless a dare-devil as the oldest and toughesttrigger-twitcher of the lot. 

But persuade and cajole as much as they liked, none of the outfit wereever able to induce Mat to pursue his education as a cowboy beyond thedetails incident to work and frolic on the open range. Oldpast-masters in the classics of cowboy town deportment, expert lightshooters, monte players, dance-hall beaux, elbow-crookers, and red-eyeriot-starters labored faithfully with Mat, but, all to no purpose. Totown with them he went, but with them in their debauches he neverjoined; indeed as a rule he even refused to discuss such incidents withthem academically. Thus he delicately but plainly made it known to theoutfit that he proposed to keep his mind as clean as his conduct. 

Such a curiosity as Mat was naturally closely studied. The combinedintelligence of the outfit was trained upon him, for some time withoutresult. He was the knottiest puzzle that ever hit Cross Cañon. Atfirst he was suspected of religious scruples and nicknamed "CircuitRider. " But presently it became apparent that he owned ability andwill to curse a fighting outlaw bronco till the burning desert air feltchill, and it became plain he feared God as little as man. Mat hadjoined the outfit in the Autumn, when for several weeks it was on thejump; first gathering and shipping beeves, then branding calves, lastlymoving the herd down to its Winter range on the San Juan. Throughoutthis period Cross Cañon's puzzle remained hopeless; but the very firstevening after the outfit went into Winter quarters at the home ranch, the puzzle was solved. 

Ranch mails were always small, no matter how infrequent their coming orhow large the outfit. The owner's business involved littlecorrespondence, the boys' sentiments inspired less. Few with closehome-ties exiled themselves on the range. Many were "on the scout"from the scene of some remote shooting scrape and known by no otherthan a nickname. For most of them such was the rarity of letters thatoften have I seen a cowboy turning and studying an unopened envelopefor a half-day or more, wondering whoever it was from and guessingwhatever its contents could be. Thus it was one of the greatsensations of the season for McTigh and his red-sashers, when the ranchcook produced five letters for Circuit Rider, all addressed in the sameneat feminine hand, all bearing the same post mark. And when, whilethe rest were washing for supper, disposing of war sacks, or "makingdown" blankets, Mat squatted in the chimney corner to read his letters, Lee Skeats impressively whispered to Priest:

"Ben, I jest nachally hope never to cock another gun ef that tharlittle ol' Circuit hain't got a gal that's stuck to him tighter'n atick makin' a gotch ear, or that ain't got airy damn thing to do to humbut write letters. Size o' them five he's got must 'a kept her settin'up nights to make 'em ever since Circuit jumped the hum reservation. Did you _ever_ hear of a feller gettin' five letters from a gal towonst?"

"I shore never did, " answered Ben; "Circuit must 'a been 'prentice tosome big Medicine Man back among his tribe and have a bagful o' hoodooshid out somewhere. He ain't so damn hijus to look at, but he shorenever knocked no gal plum loco that away with his p'rsn'l beauty. Mustbe some sort o' Injun medicine he works. "

"Ca'n't be from his mother, " cogitated Lee. "Writin' ain't tremblynone--looks like it was writ by a school-marm, an' a lally-cooler atthat. Circuit will have to git one o' them pianer-like writin' makersand keep poundin' it on the back till it hollers, ef he allows to lopeclose up in that gal's writin' class. 

"Lord! but won't thar be fun for us all Winter he'pin' him 'tend to hiscorrespondence!

"Let's you an' me slip round and tip off the outfit to shet up tillafter supper, an' then all be ready with a hot line o' useful hints'bout his answerin' her. "

Ben joyously fell in with Lee's plan. The tips were quickly passedround. But none of the hints were ever given, not a single one. Afacer lay ahead of them beside which the mere receipt of the fiveletters was nothing. To be sure, the letters were the greatestsensation the outfit had enjoyed since they stood off successfully twotroops of U. S. Cavalry, come to arrest them for killing twentymaurauding Utes. But what soon followed filled them with anastonishment that stilled their mischievous tongues, stirred sentimentslong dormant, and ultimately, in a measure, tuned their ownheart-strings into chord with the sweet melody ringing over Circuit'sown. 

Supper was called, and upon it the outfit fell--all but Circuit. Theyattacked it wolf-fashion according to their habit, bolting the steamingfood in a silence absolute but for the crunching of jaws and the shrillhiss of sipped coffee. The meal was half over before Circuit, the lastletter finished, tucked his five treasures inside his shirt, steppedover the bench to a vacant place at the table, and hastily swallowed alight meal; in fact he rose while the rest were still busy gorgingthemselves. And before Lee or the others were ready to launch atCircuit any shafts of their rude wit, his manoeuvres struck them dumbwith curiosity. 

Having hurried from the table direct to his bunk, Circuit was observeddelving in the depths of his war sack, out of which he produced a setof clean under-clothing, complete from shirt to socks, and a razor. Besides these he carefully laid out his best suit of store clothes, andfrom beneath the "heading" of the bunk he pulled a new pair of boots. All this was done with a rapidity and method that evinced some setpurpose which the outfit could not fathom, a purpose become the morepuzzling when, five minutes later, Circuit returned from the kitchenbearing the cook's wash-tub and a pail of warm water. The tub hedeposited and filled in an obscure corner of the bunkroom, and shortlythereafter was stripped to the buff, laboriously bathing himself. Thebath finished, Circuit carefully shaved, combed his hair, and dressedhimself in his cleanest and best. 

While he was dressing, Bill Ball caught breath enough to whisper toLee: "By cripes! I've got it. Circuit's got a hunch some feller'stryin' to rope an' hobble his gal, an' he's goin' to ask Tom for histime, fork a cayuse, an' hit a lope for a railroad that'll take him towhatever little ol' humanyville his gal lives at. "

"Lope hell, " answered Lee; "it's a run he's goin' to hit, with one spurin the shoulder an' th' other in th' flank. Why, th' way he's throwin'that whisker-cutter at his face, he's plumb shore to dewlap and wattlehis fool self till you could spot him in airy herd o' humans as fer asyou could see him. "

But Bill's guess proved wide of the mark. 

As soon as Circuit's dressing was finished and he had receivedassurance from the angular fragment of mirror nailed above thewash-basin that his hair was smoothly combed and a new neckerchiefneatly knotted, he produced paper and an envelope from his war sack, seated himself at the end of the long dinner-table, farthest from thefireplace, lighted a fresh candle, spread out his five treasures, carefully sharpened a stub pencil, and duly set its lead end a-soak inhis mouth, preparatory to the composition of a letter. The surprisewas complete. Such painstaking preparation and elaborate costuming forthe mere writing of a letter none present--or absent, for thatmatter--had ever heard of. But it was all so obviously eloquent of amost tender respect for his correspondent that boisterous voices werehushed, and for at least a quarter of an hour the Cross Cañonites satcovertly watching the puckered brows, drawn mouth, and awkwardlycrawling pencil of the writer. 

Presently Lee gently nudged Ball and passed a wink to the rest; thenall rose and softly tiptoed their way to the kitchen. 

Comfortably squatted on his heels before the cook's fireplace, Leequietly observed: "Fellers, I allow it's up to us to hold a inquest onth' remains o' my idee about stringin' Circuit over that thar gal o'his'n. I moves that th' idee's done died a-bornin', an' that we buryher. All that agrees, say so; any agin it, say so, 'n' then git theirguns an' come outside. "

There were no dissenting votes. Lee's motion was unanimously carried. 

"Lee's plumb right, " whispered McTigh; "that kid's got it harder an'worse than airy feller I ever heerd tell of, too hard for us to lite instringin' him 'bout it. Never had no gal myself; leastways, no goodone; been allus like a old buffalo bull whipped out o' th' herd, sortaflockin' by my lonesome, an'--an'--" with a husky catch of the voice, "an' that thar kid 'minds me I must a' been missin' a _hell_ of a lothit 'pears to me I wouldn't have no great trouble gittin' to like. "

Then for a time there was silence in the kitchen. 

Crouching over his pots, the black cook stared in surprised inquiry atthe semicircle of grim bronzed faces, now dimly lit by the flickeringembers and then for a moment sharply outlined by the flash of acigarette deeply inhaled by nervous lips. The situation was tense. Ineach man emotions long dormant, or perhaps by some never beforeexperienced, were tumultuously surging; surging the more tumultuouslyfor their long dormancy or first recognition. Presently in a low, hoarse voice that scarcely carried round the semicircle, Chillili Jimspoke:

"Fellers, Circuit shore 'minds me pow'ful strong o' my ol' mammy. Shewas monstrous lovin' to we-uns; an' th' way she scrubbed an' fixed upmy ol' pa when he comes home from the break-up o' Terry's Rangers, withhis ol' carcass 'bout as full o' rents an' holes as his ragged gray warclothes! Allus have tho't ef I could git to find a gal stuck on melike mammy on pa, I'd drop my rope on her, throw her into th' homeranch pasture, an' nail up th' gate fer keeps. "

"'Minds me o' goin' to meetin' when I was a six-year-old, " mused MancosMitch; "when Circuit's pencil got to smokin' over th' paper an' we-unsgot so dedburned still, 'peared to me like I was back in th' little ol'meetin'-house in th' mosquito clearin', on th' banks o' th' Lee in ol'Uvalde County. Th' air got that quar sort o' dead smell 'ligion allus'pears to give to meetin'-houses, a' I could hear th' ol' pa'sona-tellin' us how it's th' lovinest that allus gits th' longest end o'th' rope o' life. Hits me now that ther ol' sky scout was 'bout right. Feller cain't possibly keep busy _all_ th' love in his system, workin'it off on nothing but a pet hoss or gun; thar's allus a hell of a lotyou didn't know you had comes oozin' out when a proper piece o' calicolets you next. "

"Boys, " cut in Bill Ball, the dean of the outfit's shooters-up of townand shooters-out of dance-hall lights; "boys, I allow it 's up to me to'pologize to Circuit. Ef I wasn't such a damned o'nery kiyote I'd o'caught on befo'. But I hain't been runnin' with th' drags o' th' sheherd so long that I can't 'preciate th' feelin's o' a feller that's gota good gal stuck on him, like Circuit. Ef I had one, you-all kingamble yer _alce_ all bets would be off with them painted dance-hallbeer jerkers, an' it would be out in th' brush fo' me while th' corkswas poppin', gals cussin', red-eye flowin', an' chips rattlin'. Thatthar little ol' kid has my 'spects, an' ef airy o' th' Blue Mountainoutfit tries to string him 'bout not runnin' with them oreidepropositions, I'll hand 'em lead till my belt's empty. "

Ensued a long silence; at length, by common consent the inquest wasadjourned, and the members of the jury returned to the bunk-room, quietand solemn as men entering a death chamber. There at the table beforethe guttering candle still sat Circuit, his hair now badly tousled, hisupper lip blackened with pencil lead, his brows more deeply puckered, his entire underlip apparently swallowed, the table littered withrudely scrawled sheets. 

Slipping softly to their respective bunks, the boys peeled and climbedinto their blankets. And there they all lay, wide-awake but silent, for an hour or two, some watching Circuit curiously, some enviously, others staring fixedly into the dying fire until from its dull-glowingembers there rose for some visions of bare-footed, nut-brown, fustian-clad maids, and for others the finer lines of silk and lacedraped figures, now long since passed forever out of their lives. Those longest awake were privileged to witness Circuit's final offeringat the shrine of his love. 

His letter finished, enclosed, addressed, and stamped, he kissed it andlaid it aside, apparently all unconscious of the presence of his mates, as he had been since beginning his letter. Then he drew from beneathhis shirt something none of them had seen before, a buckskin bag, outof which he pulled a fat blank memorandum book, _into which heproceeded to copy, in as small a hand as he could write, every line ofhis sweetheart's letters_. Later they learned that this bag and itscontents never left Circuit's body, nestled always over his heart, suspended by a buckskin thong!

Out of the close intimacies cow-camp life promotes, it was not longbefore the well-nigh overmastering curiosity of the outfit wassatisfied. They learned how the "little ol' blue-eyed sorrel top, " asBill Ball had christened her, had vowed to wait faithfully till Circuitcould earn and save enough to make them a home, and how Circuit hadsworn to look into no woman's eyes till he could again look into hers. Before many months had passed, Circuit's regular weekly letter toNetty--regular when on the ranch--and the ceremonial purification andpersonal decking that preceded it, had become for the Cross Cañonoutfit a public ceremony all studiously observed. None were ever tootired, none too grumpy, to wash, shave, and "slick up" of letternights, scrupulously as Moslems bathe their feet before approaching theshrine of Mahomet and still as Moslems before their shrine all satabout the bunk-room while Circuit wrote his letter and copied Netty'slast. Indeed, more than one well-started wild town orgy was stoppedshort by one of the boys remarking: "Cut it, you kiyotes! Nettywouldn't like it!"

And thus the months rolled on till they stacked up into years, but theinterchange of letters never ceased and the burden of Circuit'sbuckskin bag grew heavier. 

Twice Circuit ventured a financial _coup_, and both timeslost--invested his savings in horses, losing one band to Arizonarustlers, and the other to Mancos Jim's Pah-Utes. After the lastexperience he took no further chances and settled down to the slow butsure plan of hoarding his wages. 

Come the Fall of the eighth year of his exile from Netty, Circuit hadaccumulated two thousand dollars, and it was unanimously voted by theCross Cañon outfit, gathered in solemn conclave at Circuit's request, that he might venture to return to claim her. And before the conclavewas adjourned, Lee Skeats, the chairman, remarked: "Circuit, ef Nettyshows airy sign o' balkin' at th' size o' your bank roll, you kin jes'tell her that thar 's a bunch out here in Cross Cañon that's beenlovin' her sort o' by proxy, that'll chip into your matrimonial play, plumb double the size o' your stack, jest fo' th' hono' o' meetin' upwi' her an' th' pleasure o' seein' their pardner hitched. "

The season's work done and the herd turned loose on its Winter range onthe San Juan, the outfit decided to escort Circuit into Mancos andthere celebrate his coming nuptials. For them the one hundred andseventy intervening miles of alternating cañon and mesa, much of thejourney over trails deadly dangerous for any creature less sure-footedthan a goat, was no more than a pleasant _pasear_. Thus it was barelyhigh noon of the third day when the thirty Cross Cañonites reachedtheir destination. 

Deep down in a mighty gorge, nestled beside the stream that gave itsname alike to cañon and to town, Mancos stewed contentedly in atemperature that would try the strength and temper of any unaccustomedto the climate of southwestern Colorado. Framed in Franciscan-graysage brush, itself gray as the sage with the dust of pounding hoofs andrushing whirlwinds, at a little distance Mancos looked like anaggregation of dead ash heaps, save where, here and there, dabs offaded paint lent a semblance of patches of dying embers. 

While raw, uninviting, and even melancholy in its every aspect, for thescattered denizens of a vast region round about Mancos's principalstreet was the local Great White Way that furnished all the fun andfrolic most of them ever knew. To it flocked miners from their dusky, pine-clad gorges in the north, grangers from the then new farmingsettlement in the Montezuma Valley, cowboys from Blue Mountain, theDolores, and the San Juan; Navajos from Chillili, Utes from theirreservation--a motley lot burning with untamed elemental passions thatcalled for pleasure "straight. "

Joyously descending upon the town at a breakneck lope before afollowing high wind that completely shrouded them in clouds of dust, itwas not until they pulled up before their favorite feed corral that theoutfit learned that Mancos was revelling in quite the reddestred-letter day of its existence, the day of its first visitation by acircus--and also its last for many a year thereafter. 

In the eighties Mancos was forty miles from the nearest railway, butnews of the reckless extravagances of its visiting miners and cowboystempted Fells Brothers' "Greatest Aggregation on Earth of Ring Artistsand Monsters" to visit it. Dusted and costumed outside of town, downthe main street of Mancos the circus bravely paraded that morning, itsred enamelled paint and gilt, its many-tinted tights and spangles, making a perfect riot of brilliant colors over the prevailing dull grayof valley and town. 

Streets, stores, saloons, and dance halls were swarming with theoutpouring of the ranches and the mines, men who drank abundantly butin the main a rollicking, good-natured lot. 

While the Cross Cañonites were liquoring at the Fashion Bar (Circuitdrinking sarsaparilla), Lame Johny, the barkeeper, remarked: "You-unsmissed it a lot, not seein' the pr'cesh. She were a ring-tailed tooterfor fair, with the damnedest biggest noise-makin' band you ever heard, an' th' p'rformers wearin' more pr'tys than I ever allowed was made. An' say, they've got a gal in th' bunch, rider I reckon, that's jestthat damned good to look at it _hurts_. Damned ef I kin git her outenmy eyes yet. Say, she's shore prittier than airy red wagon in th' showbuilt like a quarter horse, got eyes like a doe, and a sorrel mane shecould hide in. She 's sure a _chile con carne_ proposition, if I eversee one. "

"Huh!" grunted Lee; "may be a good-looker, but I'll gamble she ain't init with our Sorrel-top; hey, boys? Here 's to _our_ Sorrel-top, fellers, an' th' day Circuit prances into Mancos wi' her. "

Several who tried to drink and cheer at the same time lost much oftheir liquor, but none of their enthusiasm. After dinner atCharpiot's, a wretched counterfeit of the splendid old Denverrestaurant of that name, the Cross Cañonites joined the throngstreaming toward the circus. 

For his sobriety designated treasurer of the outfit for the day andnight, Circuit marched up to the ticket wagon, passed in a hundreddollar bill and asked for thirty tickets. The tickets and change werepromptly handed him. On the first count the change appeared to becorrect, but on a recount Circuit found the ticket-seller had cunninglyfolded one twenty double, so that it appeared as two bills instead ofone. Turning immediately to the ticket-seller, Circuit showed thedeception and demanded correction. 

"Change was right; you can't dope and roll me; gwan!" growled theticket-agent. 

"But it's plumb wrong, an' you can't rob me none, you kiyote, " answeredCircuit; "hand out another twenty, and do it sudden!"

"Chase yourself to hell, you bow-legged hold-up, " threatened theticket-seller. 

When, a moment later, the ticket man plunged out of the door of hiswagon wildly yelling for his clan, it was with eyes flooding with bloodfrom a gash in his forehead due to a resentful tap from the barrel ofCircuit's gun. 

Almost in an instant pandemonium reigned and a massacre was imminent. Stalwart canvasmen rushed to their chief's call till Circuit's bunchwere outnumbered three to one by tough trained battlers on many atented field, armed with hand weapons of all sorts. Victors these menusually were over the town roughs it was customarily theirs to handle;but here before them was a bunch not to be trifled with, a quiet groupof thirty bronzed faces, some grinning with the anticipated joy of thecombat they loved, some grim as death itself, each affectionatelytwirling a gleaming gun. One overt act on the part of the circus men, and down they would go like ninepins and they knew it--knew it so wellthat, within two minutes after they had assembled, all dodged into andlost themselves in the throng of onlookers like rabbits darting intotheir warrens. 

"Mighty pore 'pology for real men, them elephant-busters, " disgustedlyobserved Bill Ball. "Come fellers, le's go in. "

"Nix for me, " spoke up Circuit; "I'm that hot in the collar over himtryin' to rob me I've got no use for their old show. You-all go in, an' I'll go down to Chapps' and fix my traps to hit the trail for therailroad in the mornin'. "

On the crest of a jutting bastion of the lofty escarpment that formedthe west wall of the cañon, the sun lingered for a good-night kiss ofthe eastern cliffs which it loved to paint every evening with all thebrilliant colors of the spectrum; it lingered over loving memories ofancient days when every niche of the Mancos cliffs held its littlebronze-hued line of primitive worshippers, old and young, devout, prostrate, fearful of their Red God's nightly absences, suppliant ofhis return and continued largess; over memories of ceremonials andpastimes barbaric in their elemental violence, but none moreprimitively savage than the new moon looked down upon an hour later. 

Supper over, on motion of Lee Skeats the Cross Cañonites had adjournedto the feed corral and gone into executive session. 

Lee called the meeting to order. 

"Fellers, " he said, "that dod-burned show makes my back tired. A fewgeezers an' gals flipfloopin' in swings an' a bunch o' dead ones on ol'broad-backed work hosses that calls theirselves riders! Shucks! tharhain't one o' th' lot could sit a real twister long enough to git hisseat warm; about th' second jump would have 'em clawin' sand. 

"Only thing in their hull circus wo'th lookin' at is that red-manedgal, an' she looks that sweet an' innercent she don't 'pear to rightlybelong in that thar bare-legged bunch o' she dido-cutters. They-allmust 'a mavericked her recent. Looks like a pr'ty ripe red apple amonga lot o' rotten ones. 

"Hated like hell to see her thar, specially with next to nothin' on, fer somehow I couldn't help her 'mindin' me o' our Sorrel-top. Reckonef we busted up their damn show, that gal'd git to stay a while in adecent woman's sort o' clothes. What say, shall we bust her!"

"Fer one, I sits in an' draw cards in your play cheerful, " promptlyresponded Bill Ball; "kind o' hurt me too to see Reddy thar. An' thenthem animiles hain't gittin' no squar' deal. Never did believe incagin' animiles more'n men. Ef they need it bad, kill 'em; ef theydon't, give 'em a run fo' their money, way ol' Mahster meant 'em tohave when He made 'em. Let's all saddle up, ride down thar, tie ontotheir tents, an' pull 'em down, an' then bust open them cages an' giveevery dod-blamed animile th' liberty I allows he loves same as humans!An' then, jest to make sure she's a good job, le's whoop all theirhosses ove' to th' Dolores an' scatter 'em through th' piñons!"

This motion was unanimously carried, even Circuit cheerfullyconsenting, from memories of the outrage attempted upon him earlier inthe day. Ten minutes later the outfit charged down upon the circus attop speed, arriving among the first comers for the evening performance. Flaming oil torches lit the scene, making it bright almost as day. 

By united action, thirty lariats were quickly looped round guy ropesand snubbed to saddle horns, and then, incited by simultaneous spurdigs and yells, thirty fractious broncos bounded away from the tent, fetching it down in sheets and ribbons, ropes popping like pistols, therent canvas shrieking like a creature in pain, startled animalsthreshing about their cages and crying their alarm. Cowboys were neverslow at anything they undertook. In three minutes more the side showswere tentless, the dwarfs trying to swarm up the giant's sturdy legs tosafety or to hide among the adipose wrinkles of the fat lady, and theoutfit tackled the cages. 

In another three minutes the elephant, with a sociable shot through hisoff ear to make sure he should not tarry, was thundering down Mancos'smain street, trumpeting at every jump, followed by the lion, the greattuft of hair at the end of his tail converted, by a happy thought ofLee Skeats, into a brightly blazing torch that, so long as the fuellasted, lighted the shortest cut to freedom for his escaping mates--forthe lion hit as close a bee-line as possible trying to outrun his owntail. For the outfit, it was the lark of their lives. Crashing pistolshots and ringing yells bore practical testimony to their joy. Butthey were not to have it entirely their own way. 

Just as they were all balled up before the rhinoceros, staggered a bitby his great bulk and threatening horn, out upon them charged a body ofcanvasmen, all the manager could contrive to rally, for a desperateeffort to stop the damage and avenge the outrage. In their lead ranthe ticket seller, armed with a pistol and keen for evening up thingswith the man who had hit him, dashing straight for Circuit. Circuitdid not see him, but Lee did; and thus in the very instant Circuitstaggered and dropped to the crack of his pistol, down beside Circuitpitched the ticket man with a ball through his head. Then for twominutes, perhaps, a hell of fierce hand-to-hand battle raged, cowboyskulls crunching beneath fierce blows, circus men falling like autumnleaves before the cowboys' fire. And so the fight might have lastedtill all were down but for a startling diversion. 

Suddenly, just as Circuit had struggled to his feet, out from among thewrecked wagons sprang a dainty figure in tulle and tights, masses ofhair red as the blood of the battlers streaming in waves behind her, and fired at the nearest of the common enemy, which happened to be poorCircuit. Swaying for a moment with the shock of the wound, down to theground he settled like an empty sack, falling across the legs of theticket-seller. 

Startled and shocked, it seemed, by the consequences of her deed, thewoman approached and for a moment gazed down, horror-stricken, intoCircuit's face. Then suddenly, with a shriek of agony, she droppedbeside him, drew his head into her lap, wiped the gathering foam fromhis lips, fondled and kissed him. Ripping his shirt open at the neckto find his wound, she uncovered Circuit's buckskin bag and memorandumbook, showing through its centre the track of a bullet that had finallyspent itself in fracturing a rib over Circuit's heart, theticket-seller's shot, that would have killed him instantly but for theshielding bulk Netty's treasured letters interposed. Moved, perhaps, by some subtle instinctive suspicion of its contents, she glancedwithin the book, started to remove it from Circuit's neck, and thengently laid it back above the heart it so long had lain next and solately had shielded. 

Meantime about this little group gathered such of the Cross Cañonitesas were still upon their legs, while, glad of the diversion, theirenemies hurriedly withdrew; round about the outfit stood, their fingersstill clutching smoking guns, but pale and sobered. 

Circuit lay with eyes closed, feebly gasping for breath, and just asthe girl's nervous fingers further rent his shirt and exposed themortal wound through the right lung made by her own tiny pistol, Circuit half rose on one elbow and whispered: "Boys, write--write NettyI was tryin' to git to her. "

And then he fell back and lay still. 

For five minutes, perhaps, the girl crouched silent over the body, gazing wide-eyed into the dead face, stunned, every faculty paralyzed. 

Presently Lee softly spoke:

"Sis, if, as I allows, you're Netty, you shore did Mat a good turnkillin' him 'fore he saw you. Would 'a hurt him pow'ful to see you inthis bunch; hurts us 'bout enough, I reckon. "

Roused from contemplation of her deed, the girl rose to her knees, still clinging to Circuit's stiffening fingers, and sobbingly murmured, in a voice so low the awed group had to bend to hear her:

"Yes, I'm Netty, and every day while I live I shall thank God Mat neverknew. This is my husband lying dead beneath Mat. They made me doit--my family--nagged me to marry Tom, then a rich horse-breeder of ourcounty, till home was such a hell I couldn't stand it. It was fourlong years ago, and never since have I had the heart to own to Mat thetruth. His letters were my greatest joy, and they breathed a love Ilittle have deserved. 

"Reckon that's dead right, Netty, " broke in Bill Ball; "hain't a bitshore myself airy critter that ever stood up in petticoats deserved alove big as Circuit's. Excuse _us_, please. "

And at a sign from Bill, six bent and gently lifted the body and boreit away into the town. 

In the twilight of an Autumn day that happened to be the twenty-secondanniversary of Circuit's death, two grizzled old ranchmen, amblingslowly out of Mancos along the Dolores trail, rode softly up to acorner of the burying ground and stopped. There within, hard by, awoman, bent and gnarled and gray as the sage-brush about her, wastenderly decking a grave with piñon wreaths. 

"Hope to never cock another gun, Bill Ball, ef she ain't thar ag'in!"

"She shore is, Lee, " answered Bill; "provin' we-all mislaid no betsreconsiderin', an' stakin' Sorrel-top to a little ranch and brand. "

Thus, happily, does time sweeten the bitterest memories. 

CHAPTER IX

ACROSS THE BORDER

Yes, there he was, just ahead of me on the platform of the Union Depotin Kansas City, my partner, James Terry Gardiner, who had wired me tomeet him there a few weeks after I had closed the sale of our DeadmanRanch, in November, 1882. While his back was turned to me, there wasno mistaking the lean but sturdy figure and alert step. 

From the vigorous slap of cordiality I gave him on his shoulder, hewinced and shrank, crying: "Oh, please don't, old man. Been sleepingin Mexican northers for a fortnight, and it's got my shoulder musclestied in rheumatic knots. Don Nemecio Garcia started me off fromLampadasos with the assurance that my ambulance was generouslyprovisioned and provided with his own camp-bed, but when night of thefirst day's journey came, I found the food limited to _tortillas, chorisos_, and coffee, and the bed a sheepskin--no more. Stupid of anold campaigner not to investigate his equipment before starting, was itnot?"

"Worse than that, I should say--sheer madness, " I answered. "How didit happen?"

"Well, you see, Don Nemecio is the _Alcalde_, of his city, and heshowered me with such grandiloquent Spanish phrases of concern for mycomfort that I fancied he had outfitted me in extraordinary luxury. 

"But that's over now, thank goodness. And now to business. 

"In the north of the State of Coahuila, one hundred miles west of theRio Grande border, lies the little town called Villa de Musquiz. Tothe north and west of it for two hundred miles stretches the greatplain the natives call _El Desierto_, known on the map as _Bolson deMapini_, the resort of none but bandits, smuggler Lipans, andMescaleros. Into it the natives never venture, and little of it isknown except the scant information brought back by the scouting cavalrydetails. 

"Just south of the town lie the Cedral Coal Mines I have beenexamining--but that is neither here nor there. What I want to know is, are you game for a new ranch deal?"

When I nodded an affirmative, he continued:

"Well, immediately north of the town lies a tract of 250, 000 acres inthe fork of the Rio Sabinas and the Rio Alamo, which is the greatestranch bargain I ever saw. Heavily grassed, abundantly watered by itstwo boundary streams, the valleys thickly timbered with cottonwood, theplains dotted with mesquite and live oak, in a perfect climate, it isan ideal breeding range. And it can be bought, for what, do you think?Fifty thousand Mexican dollars [29, 000 gold] for a quarter of a millionacres! Go bag it, and together we'll stock it. 

"Of course you'll run some rather heavy risks--else the place would notbe going so cheap--but no more than you have been taking the last fiveyears in the Sioux country. A little bunch of Lipans are constantly onthe warpath, Mescalero raiding parties drop in occasionally, and thebandits seem to need a good many _prestamos_; but all that you havebeen up against. Better take a pretty strong party, for theauthorities thought it necessary to give me a cavalry escort fromLampasos to Musquiz and back. And, by the way, pick up a boy namedGeorge E. Thornton, Socorro, N. M. , on your way south. While only ayoungster, he is one of the best all-round frontiersmen I ever saw, andspeaks Spanish tolerably. Had him with me in the Gallup country. "

Details were settled at breakfast, and there Gardiner resumed hisjourney eastward, while I took the next train for Denver. A fortnightlater found me in Socorro, plodding through its sandy streets to anadobe house in the suburbs where Thornton lodged. 

As I neared the door a big black dog sprang fiercely out at me to thefull length of his chain, and directly thereafter the door framed anextraordinary figure. Then barely twenty-one, and downy still of lip, Thornton's gray eyes were as cold and calculating, the lines of hisface as severe and even hard, his movements as deliberate andexpressive of perfect self-mastery as those of any veteran of half adozen wars. Six feet two in height, straight as a white pine, ideallycoupled for great strength without sacrifice of activity, he lookedaltogether one of the most capable and safe men one could wish for in ascrap; and so, later, he well proved himself. 

He greeted me in carefully correct English; and while quiet, reserved, and cold of speech as of manner, the tones in which he assured me anyfriend of Mr. Gardiner was welcome, conveyed faint traces of cordialitythat roused some hope that he might prove a more agreeable campmatethan his dour mien promised. We were not long coming to terms; indeedthe moment I outlined the trip contemplated, and its possible hazards, it became plain he was keen to come on any terms. To my surprise, heproposed bringing his dog, Curly. I objected that so heavy a dog wouldbe likely to play out on our forced marches, and, anyway, would be nomortal use to us. His reply was characteristic:

"Curly goes if I go, sir; but any time you can tell me you find him anuisance, I'll shoot him myself. I've had him four years, had him outall through Victoria's raid of the Gila, and he's a safer night guardthan any ten men you can string around camp: nothing can approach hewon't nail or tell you of. With Curly, a night-camp surprise isimpossible. "

Whatever cross Curly represented was a mystery. Two-thirds the heightand weight of a mastiff, he had the broad narrow pointed muzzle of abear, and a shaggy reddish-black coat that further heightened hisresemblance to a cinnamon, with great gray eyes precisely the color ofhis master's, and as fierce. Whichever character was formed on that ofthe other I never learned--the man's on the dog's, or the dog's on theman's. Certain it is that not even the luckiest chance could havebrought together man and beast so nearly identical in all their traits. Both were honest, almost to a fault. Neither possessed any vice I evercould discover. Each was wholly happy only when in battle, the moredesperate the encounter the happier they. Neither ever actually forceda quarrel, or failed to get in the way of one when there was the leastcolor of an attempt to fasten one on them. And yet both were alwaysconsiderate of any weaker than themselves, and quick to go to theirdefence. Many a time have I seen old Curly seize and throttle a bigdog he caught rending a little one--as I have seen George leap to theaid of the defenceless. Each weighed carefully his kind, and foundmost wanting in something requisite to the winning of his confidence;and such as they did admit to familiar intimacy, man or beast, were thesalt of their kind. 

On the train, south-bound for San Antonio, I learned something ofThornton's history. The son of a judge of Peoria, Ill. , he had untilfifteen the advantage of the schools of his city. Then, possessed witha longing for a life of adventure in the West, he ran away from home, worked in various places at various tasks, until, at sixteen (in 1887)he had made his way to Socorro. Arrived there, he attached himself toa small party of prospectors going out into the Black Range, into aregion then wild and hostile as Boone found Kentucky. And there forthe last five years he had dwelt, ranging through the Datils and theMogallons, prospecting whenever the frequently raiding Apaches left himand his mates time for work. Indeed, it was Thornton who discoveredand first opened the Gallup coal field, and he held it until Victoriaran him out. During this time he was in eight desperate fights--theonly man to escape from one of them; but out of them he came unscathed, and trained to a finish in every trick of Apache warfare. 

At San Antonio we were met by Sam Cress, who for the last four yearshad been foreman of my Deadman Ranch. Cress was born on Powell River, Virginia, but had come to Texas as a mere lad and joined a cow outfit. He had really grown up in the Cross Timbers of the Palo Pinto, where, in those years, any who survived were past masters not only of theweird ways and long hours and outlaw broncos, but also of the cunningstrategy of the Kiowas and Comanches who in that time were raidingranches and settlements every "light of the moon. " Cress was thentwenty-five--just my age--and one of the rare type of men who actuallyhate and dread a fight, but where necessary, go into it with a jest andcome out of it with a laugh, as jolly a camp-mate and as steady astayer as I ever knew. Charlie Crawford, a half-breed Mexican, takenon for his fluency in Spanish, completed our outfit. Two morningslater the Mexican National Express dropped us at the Lampasos depotabout daylight, from which we made our way over a mile of dusty roadwinding through mesquite thickets to the Hotel Diligencia, on the mainplaza. 

A norther was blowing that chilled us to the marrow, and of course, according to usual Mexican custom, not a room in the hotel was heated. The best the little Italian proprietor could do for us was a pan ofcharcoal that warmed nothing beyond our finger tips. As soon as thesun rose, we squatted along the east wall of the hotel and thereshivered until Providence or his own necessity brought past us a peondriving a burro loaded with mesquite roots. We bought this wood anddumped it in the central patio of the hotel and there lighted acampfire that made us tolerably comfortable until breakfast. 

Ignorant then of Mexico and its customs, I had fancied that when aproper hour arrived for a call on the _Alcalde_, Don Nemecio Garcia, Ishould have a chance to warm myself properly and had charitably askedmy three mates to accompany me on the visit. But when at ten o'clockDon Nemecio received us in his office, we found him tramping up anddown the room, wrapped in the warm folds of an ample cloak; his neckand face swathed in mufflers to the eyes, arctics on his feet, and nostove or fireplace in the room. As leading merchant of the town, hesoon supplied us with provisions and various articles, and with foursaddle and three pack horses for our journey. 

The next day, while my men were busy arranging our camp outfit, I tooktrain for Monterey to get a letter from General Treviño, commanding theDepartment of Coahuila, to the _comandante_ of the garrison at Musquiz. On this short forenoon's journey I had my first taste of the disorderedstate of the country. 

About ten o'clock our train stopped at the depot of Villaldama, where Iobserved six _guardias aduaneras_ (customs guards) removing the packsfrom a dozen mules, and transferring them to the baggage car. Just asthis work was nearing completion, a band of fourteen _contradistas_dashed up out of the surrounding chaparral, dropped off their horses, and opened at thirty yards a deadly fire on the guards. With others inthe smoker, next behind the baggage car, I had a fine view of thebattle, but a part of the time we were directly in the line of fire, for four of our car windows were smashed by bullets, and many bulletswere buried in the car body. Such encounters between guards andsmugglers in Mexico were always a fight to the death, for under the lawthe guards received one-half the value of their captures, while ofcourse the smugglers stood to win or lose all. 

As soon as fire opened, the guards jumped for the best cover available, and put up the best fight they could. But the odds were hopelesslyagainst them. In five minutes it was all over. Three of the guardslay dead, one was crippled, and the other two were in flight. To besure two of the smugglers were bowled over, dead, and two badlywounded, but the remaining ten were not long in repossessing themselvesof their goods; and when our train pulled out, the baggage car riddledwith bullets till it looked like a sieve, the ten were hurriedlyrepacking their mules for flight west to the Sierras. Later I learnedthat early that morning the guards had caught the _conducta_ with onlytwo men in charge, who had shrewdly skipped and scattered to gather theparty that arrived just in time to save their plunder. 

Mexican import duties in those days were so enormous that very many ofthe best people then living along the border engaged regularly insmuggling, as the most profitable enterprise offering. American hams, I remember, were then sixty cents a pound, and everything else inproportion. Even in the city of Monterey, stores that displayed ontheir open shelves little but native products, had warehouses where youcould buy (at three times their value in the States) almost anyAmerican or European goods you wanted. 

Well recommended to General Treviño from kinsmen of his wife, who was adaughter of General Ord of our army, he gave me a letter to CaptainAbran de la Garza, commanding at Musquiz, directing him to furnish meany cavalry escort or supplies I might ask for, and the following daywe started north from Lampasos on our one-hundred-mile march to Musquiz. 

The first two days of the journey, for fully sixty miles, we travelledacross the lands of Don Patricio Milmo, who thirty years earlier hadarrived in Monterey, a bare-handed Irish lad, as Patrick Miles. Through thrift, cunning trading, and a diplomatic marriage into one ofthe most powerful families of the city, he had oreid his name andgilded the prospects of his progeny, for he had become the richestmerchant of Monterey and the largest landholder of the state. 

On this march north Curly's value was well demonstrated. The first twonights I divided our little party into four watches, so that one manshould always be awake, and on the _qui vive_. But it took us no morethan these two nights to discover that Curly was a better guard thanall of us put together. Throughout the noon and early evening camp heslept, but as soon as we were in our blankets he was on the alert, andnothing could move near the camp that he did not tell us of it in lowgrowls, delivered at the ear of one or another of the sleepers. However, nothing happened on the journey up, save at the camp justnorth of Progreso, where some of the villagers tried slip up on ourhorses toward midnight, and Curly's growls kept them off. Their trailsabout our camp were plain in the morning. The evening of the third daywe reached Musquiz, one of the oldest towns of the northern border, nestled at the foot of a tall sierra amid wide fields of sugar cane, irrigated by the clear, sweet waters of the Sabinas. 

At eight o'clock the next morning I called on Captain Abran de laGarza, the _Comandante_, to present my letter from General Treviño. 

Like the monarch of all he surveyed, he received me in his bed-chamber. As soon as I entered, it became apparent the Captain was a sportsman aswell as a soldier. 

The room was perhaps thirty by twenty feet in size. Midway of thenorth wall stood a rude writing table on which were a few officialpapers. Ranged about the room were a dozen or more rawhide-seatedchairs, each standing stiffly at "attention" against the wallscrupulously equidistant order. Glaring at me in crude lettering froma broad rafter facing the door was the grimly patriotic sentiment, "Libertad o Muerte. " (Liberty or Death!) In the southwest corner ofthe room stood a low and narrow cot, beneath whose thin serape coveringa tall, gaunt cadaverous frame was plainly outlined. From the headpostof the cot dangled a sword and two pistols. _And to every bed, table, stand, and chair was hobbled a gamecock_--a rarely high-bred lot bytheir looks, that joined in saluting my entrance with a volley ofquestioning crows! It was, I fancy, altogether the most startlingreception visitor ever had. 

In a momentary pause in the crowing, there issued from a throat rivenand deep-seamed from frequent floodings with fiery torrents of mescal, and out of lungs perpetually surcharged with cigarette smoke, a hoarsecroaking, but friendly toned, "_Buenos dias, señor. Sirvase tomar unasiento. Aqui tiene vd su casa!_" and peering more closely into thedusky corner, I beheld a great face, lean to emaciation, dominated by amagnificent Roman nose with two great dark eyes sunk so deep on eitherside of its base they must forever remain strangers to one another. The nose supported a splendid breadth of high forehead, which wascrowned with a shock of coal-black hair, while the jaws were bearded tothe eyes. It was the face of an ascetic Crusader, sensualized in ameasure by years of isolated frontier service and its attendant vicesand degeneration, but still a face full of the noble melancholy of aQuixote. 

Propping himself on a great bony knot of an elbow, the Captain madepolite inquiry respecting my journey, and then asked in what could heserve me. But when I had explained that I wanted to meet the owner ofthe Santa Rosa Ranch, and contemplated going out to see it, it was onlyto learn, to my great disappointment, that it had been sold the weekprevious to two Scotchmen. Fancy! in a country visited by foreigners, as a rule, not so often as once a year. 

Nor was I consoled when, noting my obvious chagrin, the Captain soughtto lighten the blow by saying: "But, my dear sir, this is indeedevidence God is guarding you. That ranch has been a legacy ofcontention and feud for generations. Besides, what good could you getof it? Its nearest line to the town is six miles distant, and no lifeor property would be safe there a fortnight. Far the best cattle ranchin this section, a fourth of it irrigable, and as fine sugar-cane landas one could find, do you fancy it would be tenantless as when Godfirst made it if safe for occupancy? Why, my dear sir, within the lastsix months Juan Gaian's Lipans have killed no less than seventy of ourtownsmen, some in their fields, some in the very suburbs of the town, while Mescaleros are raiding a little lower down the river, and NicanorRascon is apt to sweep down any day with his _bandidos_ and plunderstrong boxes and stores. It is with shame I admit it, for I, DonAbran, am responsible for the peace and safety of this district. But, _mil demonios_! what can I do with one troop of cavalry against banditsruthless as savages, and savages cunning as bandits?

"Oh! but if I only had horses! Those devils take remounts when theylike from the _remoudas_ of ranchers, but I, _carajo_! I am alwayslimited to my troop allotment. 

"Burn a hundred candles to the Virgin, _amigo mio_, as a thank offeringfor your deliverance, and wait and see what happens to the Scotchmen;and while waiting, it will be my great pleasure to show you some of thegrandest cock-fighting you ever saw. Look at them! Beauties, are theynot? Purest blood in all Mexico! Kept me poor four years getting themtogether! But now! Ah! now, it will not be long till they win meranches and _remoudas_!

"Ah! me. Time was not so very long ago when Abran de la Garza wascalled the most dashing _jefe de tropa_ in the service, when señoritasfell to him as alamo leaves shower down to autumn winds; when prideconsumed him, and ambition for a Division was burning in his brain. But now this demon of a frontier has scorched and driven him tillnaught remains to him but the chance of an occasional fruitlessskirmish, his thirst for mescal, his greed for _aguilas_, and his cocksto win them! But, señor, bet no money against them, for it wouldgrieve me to win from a stranger introduced by my General. "

Then, with a grave nod of friendly warning, he turned an affectionategaze upon his pets. Meantime, as if conscious of his pride in them, the cocks were boastfully crowing paeans to their own victories, pastand to come, in shrill and ill-timed but uninterrupted concert, bronzewings flapping, crimson crests truculently tossing insolent challengefor all comers. 

With the one plan of my trip completely smashed, I felt too much upsetto continue the interview, and excused myself. But after a forenoonspent alone beside the broad and swift current the Sabinas was pouringpast me, gazing at the dim blue mountain-crests in the west that I hadlearned marked its source, the irresistible call to penetrate theunknown impressed and then possessed me so completely that, at ourmidday breakfast, I announced to the Captain I had decided to followthe river to its head, and pass thence into the desert for athirty-days' circle to the north and west. 

"But, _valga nu Dios_, man, " he objected, "I have no force I can sparefor sufficient time to give you adequate escort for such a journey. Itwould be madness to undertake it with less than fifty men. I amresponsible to my General for your safety, and cannot sanction it. Beyond the Alamo Cañon the only waters are in isolated springs in theplains and in natural rain-fall tanks along the mountain crests, knownto none except the Indians and Tomas Alvarez, an old half-breedKickapoo long attached to my command as scout, who ranged that countryyears ago with his tribe, and who guides my troop on such short scoutsas we have been able to make beyond the Alamo, and--"

"Pardon, " I ventured to interrupt, "that will do nicely; give meAlvarez and one good trustworthy soldier, and we'll make the circlewithout trouble. "

"Six of you! Why, you'd never get twenty miles out of town in thatdirection. I can't permit it. "

"Pardon again, Don Abran, " I broke in, "but we have for years beenaccustomed to move in small parties through country that held a hundredtimes more hostiles than you have here, and you can trust us to takecare of ourselves. Go we shall in any event, without your men if youwithhold them. "

"Well, well, _hijo mio_, " he responded, "if you are bound to go, wewill see. Only I shall write my General that I have sought to restrainyou. "

To us the prevailing local fears seemed absurd. Admittedly there wereonly sixteen of the Lipans then left, men, women, and children, theirchief, Juan Galan, the son by a Lipan squaw, of the father of GarzaGalan, then the leading merchant of the town, and later a distinguishedGovernor of his State. Originally a powerful tribe occupying bothbanks of the lower Rio Grando to the south of the Comanches, in theirwars with Texans and Mexicans the Lipans had dwindled until only thishandful remained. Three years earlier the entire band had beencaptured after a desperate fight, and removed by the Mexicanauthorities to a small reservation five hundred miles southwest ofMusquiz. But at the end of two years, as soon as the guard over themrelaxed, indomitable as Dull Knife and his Cheyennes in their desperatefight (in 1879) to regain their northern highland home, Juan Galan andhis pathetically small following jumped their reservation and dodgedand fought their way back to the Musquiz Mountains; and there for thelast ten months, constantly harassed and harassing, they had beenfighting for the right to die among the hills they loved. To thenatives they were blood-thirsty wolves, beasts to be exterminated; toan impartial onlooker they were a heroic band courting death in asplendid last fight for fatherland. Their bold deeds would fill abook. Even in this town of fifteen hundred people guarded by a troopof cavalry, no one ventured out at night except from the most pressingnecessity; and of the seventy killed by them since their return, nearlya third were macheted in the streets of Musquiz during Juan Galan'snight raids on the town. 

The most effective work against them was done by a band of about ahundred Seminole-negro half-breeds, to whom the Government had made agrant of four square leagues twenty-five miles west of Musquiz, on theNacimiento. Come originally out of the Indian territory in the UnitedStates, where the Seminoles had cross-bred with their negro slaves, this same band a few years earlier had been most efficient scouts forour own troops at Fort dark, and other border garrisons, and it wasthis record that led the Mexican Government to seek and lodge them onthe Nacimiento, as a buffer against the Lipans. 

That night arrangements for our trip were concluded: the Captainconsented to furnish me old Tomas Alvarez and a young soldier namedManuel, but only on condition that he himself should escort us, withfifty men of his troop, one day's march up the river, which would carryus beyond the recent range of the Lipans. So early the next morning wemarched out westward, passing the last house a half-mile outside thecentre of the town, along a dim, little-travelled trail that followedthe river to the Seminole village on the Nacimiento. The day's journeywas without incident, other than our amusement at what seemed to us theCaptain's overzealous caution in keeping scouts out ahead and to rightand left of the column, and in posting sentries about our night camp. 

The following morning, a Sunday, after much good advice, the kindlyCaptain bade us a reluctant farewell, and led his troops down-rivertoward home, while our little party of six headed westward up-river. Near noon we sighted the Seminole village, and shortly entered it, aclose cluster of low jacals built of poles and mud. Odd it looked, aswe entered, a deserted village, no living thing in sight but a fewdogs. Thus our surprise was all the greater when, nearing the fartheredge of the village, our ears were greeted with the familiar strains of"Jesus, Lover of My Soul, " issuing from a large _jacal_ which we soonlearned was the Seminole church. Fancy it! the last thing one couldhave dreamed of! An honest old Methodist hymn sung in English byseveral score devout worshippers in the heart of Mexico, on the verydead line between savagery and civilization, and at that, sung by apeople all savage on one side of their ancestry and semi-savage on theother. 

Before the singing of the hymn was finished, startled by the barking oftheir dogs, out of the low doorway sprang half a dozen men, strappingbig fellows, --one, the chief, bent half double with age, --all heavilyarmed. The moment they saw we were Americans we were most cordiallyreceived, and even urged to stop a few days with them, and give themnews of the Texas border. But for this we had no time; and after ashort visit--for which the congregation adjourned service--we filledour canteens, let our horses drink their fill at the great Nacimientospring that burst forth a veritable young river from beneath a lowbluff beside the town, and struck out westward for Alamo Cañon. Ourafternoon march gave us little concern, for our route lay acrossrolling, lightly timbered uplands that offered little opportunity forambush. That night we made a "dry camp" on the divide, preferring toapproach the Alamo in daylight. 

Having struck camp before dawn the next morning, by noon we saw aheadof us a great gorge dividing the mountain we were approaching--great inits height, but of a scant fifty yards in breadth, perpendicular ofsides, a narrow line of brush and timber creeping down along itsbottom, but stopping just short of the open plains. Scouting wasuseless. If there were any Indians about, we certainly had been seen, and they lay in ambush for us in a place of their own choosing. Wemust have water, and to get it must enter the cañon. So straight intothe timber that filled the mouth of the gorge we rode at a run, ridinga few paces apart to avoid the possible potting of our little bunch, and a hundred yards within the outer fringe of timber we reached thewater our animals so badly needed. 

And right there, all about the "sink" of the Alamo, where the lastdrops of the stream sank into the thirsty sands, the bottom was coveredthick with fresh moccasin tracks, and in a little opening in the bushnear to the sink smouldered the embers of that morning's camp-fire of aband of Lipans. Apparently we were in for it and seriously debated aretreat. Our position could not be worse. Tomas told us that thetrail of the Lipans led straight up the valley, and for eight miles thecañon was never more than three hundred yards wide, and often no morethan fifty, with almost perpendicular walls rising on either side twohundred or more feet in height, so nearly perpendicular that we wouldfor the entire distance be in range from the bordering cliff crests, while any enemy there ambushed would be so safely covered they couldfollow our route and pick us off at their leisure. To be sure, thebrush along the stream afforded some shelter, but no real protection. However, out now nearly fifty miles from Musquiz and well into thecountry we had come to see, we pushed ahead. Cress, Thornton, andManuel prowling afoot through the brush a hundred yards in advance, Crawford, Tomas and myself bringing up the rear with the horses. Andso we advanced for nearly half a mile when the Lipan trail turned east, toward Musquiz, up a crevice in the cliff a goat would have no easytime ascending. Thus we were led to argue that the Lipans had lefttheir camp before discovering our approach, and by this time wereprobably miles away to the east. 

Mounting, therefore, we made the beat pace our pack animals could standup through the eight miles of the narrows, riding well apart from eachother, the only safeguard we could take, all craning our necks for viewof the cliff crests ahead of us. But no living thing showed save a fewdeer and coyotes, and two mountain lions that, alarmed by ourclattering pace, slipped past us back down the gorge. When at last wereached the end of the narrows and the cañon broadened to a width ofseveral hundred yards, all but fifty or seventy-five yards of the beltof timber lining the stream along the south wall being comparativelylevel grassy bunch land, nearly devoid of cover, we congratulatedourselves that we had not been scared into a retreat. 

Keen to put as much distance as we could between us and the Lipans, wetravelled on up the cañon at a sharp trot, keeping well to its middle, until about 5 p. M. , when we reached a point where it widened into abroad bay, nearly seven hundred yards from crest to crest, with a densethicket of mesquite trees near its centre that made fine shelter and anexcellent point of defence for a night camp. The stream hugged theeast wall of the cañon, where it had carved out a tortuous bed perhapsone hundred and fifty yards wide, and so deep below the bench weoccupied that only the tops of tall cottonwoods were visible from thethicket. 

While the rest of us were busy unsaddling and unpacking, Thornton slungall our canteens over his shoulder, and started for the stream. But nosooner had he disappeared below the edge of the bench, a scant twohundred yards from our camp, before a rapid rifle fire opened which, while we knew it must proceed from his direction, echoed back from onecliff wall to the other until it appeared like an attack on ourposition from all sides, while the echoes multiplied to the volume ofcannon fire at the sound of each shot. Indeed, never have I heard suchthunderous, crashing, ear-splitting gun-detonations except on one otheroccasion, when aboard the British battle ship _Invincible_ and in hersix-inch gun battery while a salute was being fired. 

Frightened by the fire, one of our pack horses stampeded down thecañon. Sending Manuel in pursuit, and leaving Tomas at the camp, Crawford, Cress, and I ran for the break of benchland, to reach and aidThornton. Nearing it, all three dropped flat, and crawled to its edge, just in time to see George make a neat snap shot at a Lipan midway of aflying leap over a log, and drop him dead. Old George was standingquietly on the lower slope of the bench just above the timber, whilethe shots from eight or ten Lipan rifles were raining all about him!The Lipans lay in the timber only one hundred to one hundred and fiftyyards away, and it was a miracle they did not get him. Instantly Cressand Crawford slipped back out of range, made a detour that brought themto the bench edge within fifty yards of the Lipans' position, andopened on them a cross fire, while I lay above George and shelled awayat the smoke of their discharge, for not one showed a head after Georgepotted the jumper. Five minutes after Cress and Crawford opened onthem, the Lipan fire ceased entirely. For an hour we scouted along thebank trying to locate them, but apparently they had withdrawn. 

Then, while the others covered us, George and I slipped through thebush to investigate his kill, and found a great gaunt old warrior atleast sixty years old, wrinkled of face as if he might be a hundred, but sound of teeth and coal-black of hair as a youth, his face and bodyscarred in nearly a score of places from bullet and machetewounds, --the sign manual writ indelibly on his war-worn frame by many adoughty enemy. We carried him to the bench crest, Crawford fetched aspade and we dug a grave and buried him with his weapons laid upon hisbreast, as his own people would have buried him, and then we firedacross his grave the final salute he obviously so well had earned. 

More than he would have done for us? Yes, I dare say. But then ourpoints of view were different. Throughout his long life a terror toall whites he doubtless had been; upon us he was stealthily slipping, ruthless as a tiger; but then he and his tribesmen and lands had solong been prey to the greed of white invaders of his domain that it ishard to blame him for fighting, according to the traditions of hisrace, to the death. 

Lying in camp within the thicket that night, naturally without a fire, Thornton made it plain that his voluntary start for water wasprovidentially timed. He told us that, while descending the slope tothe timber, he saw the head of a little column of Indians, stealing upthe valley through the brush, saw them before they saw him; but just ashe saw them, he slipped on some pebbles and nearly fell, making a noisethat attracted their attention. Instantly they slid into cover, andopened fire on him. 

Asked by me why he himself had not sought cover, George answered, "Noshow to get one except by keeping out in the open on the high ground, and I _wanted one_!"

It was plain the Lipans had sighted us when too late to lay an ambushfor us in the narrows, had made a short cut through the hills anddropped down into the stream bed with the plan to attack us at ournight camp. Evidently they had not expected us to camp so early, andwere jogging easily along through the brush, for once off their guard. But for George's chance start for the stream, nothing but faithful oldCurly's perpetual watchfulness could have saved us from a bad mix-upthat night. Already it had been so well proved that we could safelytrust Curly to guard us against surprise, we slept soundly through thenight, without disturbance of any sort. 

The next forenoon's march to the head waters of the Alamo was ananxious one, and was made with the utmost caution, for we were sure theLipans would be lying in wait for us; but no sign of them did we againsee for three weeks. 

Leaving the Alamo, we made a great circle through the desert, swingingfirst north toward the Sierra Mojada, then south, and ultimatelyeastward toward Monclova. The trip proved to be one of great hardshipand danger, but only from scarcity of water; for while at isolatedsprings we found recent camps of one sort of desert prowler or another, we neither met nor saw any. Finally, late one night of the fourthweek, we reached a little spring called Zacate, out in the open plainonly about thirty miles south of Musquiz. But between us and only fivemiles south of the town stretched a tall range through which Tomas knewof only two passes practicable for horsemen; one, to the west, via theAlamo, the route we had come, would involve a journey of eighty miles, while by the other, an old Indian and smugglers' trail crossing thesummit directly south of Musquiz, we could make the town in thirty-twomiles. The latter route Tomas strongly opposed as too dangerous. Twelve miles from where we lay it entered the range, and for fifteenmiles followed terrible rough cañons wherein, every step of the way, weshould be right in the heart of the recent range of the Lipans, andwhere every turn offered chance of a perfect ambush. But with ourhorses exhausted, worn to more shadows from long marches throughcountry affording scant feed, with not one left that could much morethan raise a trot, we finally decided to chance the shorter route. That night we supped on cold antelope meat and biscuits, to avoidbuilding a fire, and rolled up in our blankets, but not to rest longundisturbed. 

Shortly after midnight Curly roused us with low growls. Though themoon was full, the night was so clouded one could hardly see the lengthof a gun-barrel. Curly's warnings continuing, George and Tomas rolledout of their blankets and crawled out among and about the horses, andlay near them an hour or more, till Curly's growls finally ceased. Then we called them in and all lay down, and finished the night inpeace. Early the next morning, however, a short circle discovered thetrail of three Indians who had crept near to the horses andreconnoitred our position. Their back trail led due northeast, thedirection we had to follow; and when we had ridden out half a mile fromthe Ojo Zacate, we found where their trail joined that of the mainband. The "sign" showed they had been south toward Monclova on asuccessful horse-stealing raid, for it was plain they had passed us inthe night with a bunch of at least twenty horses, heading toward apoint of the range only five or six miles west of where we should becompelled to enter it. 

We were in about as bad a hole as could be conceived. Plainly theIndians knew of our presence in the vicinity. It was equally certaintheir scouts would be watching our every move throughout the day, andthere was not one chance in a thousand of our crossing the rangewithout attack from some ambush of such vantage as to leave smallground for hope that we could survive it. All but Cress and Thorntonurged me to turn back, although we were all nearly afoot, and had nofood left except two or three pounds of flour, and a little meat. After very short deliberation I decided to go ahead. The Lipans knewprecisely where we were, and if they wanted us they could (in the eventof a retreat) easily run us down and surround us and hold us off foodand water until we were starved out sufficiently to charge theirposition and be shot down. Better far put up a bold bluff and takechances of cutting through them. 

So on we plodded slowly toward the hills, all of us walking most of theway to save our horses all we could. At 2 p. M. We cut the old trailTomas was heading us toward, and shortly thereafter entered the mouthof a frightfully rough cañon, its bottom and slopes thickly coveredwith nopal, sotol, and mesquite, and, later, higher up, with pines, junipers, oaks, and spruces, with here and there groups of greatboulders that would easily conceal a regiment. Two or three miles in, the gorge deepened until tall mountain slopes were rising steeply oneither side of us, and narrowed until we had to pick our way over therough boulders of the dry stream-bed. 

Our advance was slow, for it had to be made with the utmost caution. Thornton, Cress, and Tomas scouted afoot, one in the bottom of thegorge, and one half-way up each of its side walls, while Manuel andCrawford followed two hundred yards behind them, also afoot, drivingthe saddle and pack horses; and I trailed two hundred yards behind thehorses, watching for any sign of an attempted surprise from the rear. Thus scattered, we gave them no chance to bowl over several of us atthe first fire from any ambush they might have arranged. 

From the windings of the cañon we were out of sight of each other muchof the time; personally, I recall that afternoon as one of the mostlonely and uncomfortable I ever passed. I slipped watchfully along, stopping often to listen, eyes sweeping the hillsides and the gulchbelow me, searching every tree and boulder, with no sound but thesoughing of the wind through the tree-tops, and an occasional softclatter of shingle beneath the slipping hoofs of my unshod horse. 

But throughout the afternoon the only sign of man or beast that I sawwas a lot of sotol plants recently uprooted, and their roots eaten bybears. 

Shortly after dark we reached the only permanent water in the cañon, aclear, cold, sweet spring, bursting out from beneath a rock, only tosink immediately into the arid sands of the dry stream-bed. Immediately below the spring and midway of the gorge bottom stood anisland-like uplift, twenty yards in length by ten in width, coveredwith brush, leaving on either side a narrow, rocky channel, and fromeither side of these two channels the cañon walls, heavily timbered, rose very steeply. Just above these narrows, the gorge widened intoseven or eight acres of level, park-like, well-grassed benchland, andinto this little park we turned our horses loose for the night, forthey were too worn to stray. 

Having made eight or ten miles up the cañon during the afternoon march, we were now within a mile of the summit, and no more than seven milesfrom Musquiz. Indeed we should have tried to reach the town that nighthad not Tomas told us the next three miles of the trail were so steepand rough he could not undertake to fetch us over it unless weabandoned our animals, saddles, and packs. 

We turned into our blankets early, after a cold supper, for we did notcare to chance a fire. Cress and I slept together in the channel tothe west of the island; Manuel and Tomas to the east of it quite out ofour sight; Thornton and Crawford ten paces north, in sight of bothourselves and the Mexicans. A little moonlight filtered down throughthe trees, but not enough to enable us to see any distance. 

Scarcely were we asleep, it seemed to me, before Curly awakened Cressand myself, growling immediately at our heads. Rising in our blankets, guns in hand, and listening intently, we could hear on the hillsideabove us what sounded like the movements of a bear. Whatever it mightbe, it was approaching. Not a word had been spoken, and Curly's growlswere so low we had no idea any of the others had been roused. So wesat on the alert for perhaps fifteen minutes, when the sounds above usbegan receding, and we lay down again. But just as we were passingback into dreamland, Curly again startled us with a sharper, fiercernote that meant trouble at hand. 

As we rose to a sitting posture, in the dim moonlight we could plainlysee a dark crouching figure twenty yards below, which advanced a stepor two, stopped as if to listen, and again advanced and stopped. Whatit was we could not make out. At first I thought it must be a bear, but presently I felt sure I caught the glimmer of a gun barrel, andnudged Cress with my elbow. We were in the act of raising our riflesto down it, whatever it might be, when Thornton sang out, "Hold on, boys; that's old Tomas!" And, indeed, so it proved. All had beenawakened at the first alarm, and Thornton had seen Tomas roll from hisblankets into the bottom of the east channel, and crawl away on thescout for the cause of Curly's uneasiness that so nearly had cost himhis life. He had been so intent for movement on the hillsides he hadnot noticed us watching him. 

The next morning we were moving by dawn, Tomas, Cress, and myself inthe lead, the others trailing along one hundred or two hundred yardsbehind us. For half a mile the gorge widened, as most mountain gorgesdo near their heads, into beautiful grassy slopes rising steeply beforeus, thickly timbered with post oak. Then, issuing from the timber, wesaw it was a blind cañon we were in, a _cul de sac_, with no passthrough the crest of the range. 

Before us rose a very nearly perpendicular wall for probably sixhundred feet, up which the old trail zigzagged, climbing from ledge toledge, so steep that when, later, we were fetching our horses up it, one of the pack horses lost its balance and fell fifty feet, cripplingit so badly we had to kill it. The cliff face, about three hundredyards in width, and flanked to right and left by the walls of thecañon, was entirely bare of trees, but thickly strewn with boulders. From an enemy on the top of the two flanking walls, climbers up thecliff face could get no shelter whatever. Thus it was important thatour advance should reach the summit as quickly as possible. So, up thethree of us scrambled, about thirty yards apart, disregarding the trail. 

When we were nearly half-way up, and just as we had paused to catch ourbreath, several rifle shots rang out in quick succession, which, fromsome peculiar echo of the cañon, sounded as if they had been firedbeneath us. Upon turning, we could see nothing of our three mates orthe horses--they were hidden from our view by the timber. Fancyingthey were attacked from the rear, I was about to call a return to theirrelief, when I saw Thornton run to the near edge of the timber, drop onone knee behind a tree, and open fire on the cliff-crest directly aboveour heads. 

Whirling and looking up, I was just in time to see eight or ten men bobup on the crest and take quick snap shots at the three of us in thelead, and then duck to cover. We were so nearly straight under them, however, that they overshot us, although they were barely one hundredyards from us. Dropping behind boulders we peppered back at theflashes of their rifles, which was all we three in the lead thereaftersaw of them; for after the first volley most of them lay close anddirected their fire at the men in the edge of the timber, butoccasionally a rifle was tipped over the edge of a boulder and fired atrandom in our direction. And all the time they were yelling at us, "_Que vienen, puercos! Que vienen!_" (Come on, pigs! Come on!)

I was puzzled. Both Cress and I thought they were Mexicans, but Tomasinsisted they were Lipans. And sure enough it was the Lipans all spokeSpanish and dressed like Mexican peons. Whoever they might be, wecould not stay where we were. By the firing and voices there were atleast a dozen of them, and obviously it was only a matter of momentsbefore they would occupy the two flanking walls and have us openlyexposed. 

It was a bad dilemma. Retreat was impossible, down a gorge commandedat short range from both sides. If we took shelter in it, they couldstarve us out; if we attempted to descend it, they could easily pick usoff; if any of us escaped back to the plain it would only be to incurgreater exposure if they pursued, or probably to perish of hungerbefore we could reach any settlements. Thus the situation called forno reflection--it was charge and dislodge them, or die. 

Yelling to the boys below to close up on us, we three settled down tothe maintenance of the hottest fire we could deliver at the rifleflashes above us, to cover their advance. Luckily there were manyboulders scattered along the grassy treeless slope they had to advanceacross to reach the foot of the cliff. Thus by darting from oneboulder to another they had tolerable cover and were able to reach uswith no worse casualties than a comparatively slight flesh woundthrough Manuel's side and the shooting away of Thornton's belt buckle. 

Then we started the charge, led really by Thornton, who, active as agoat, would have raced straight into the downpour of lead if I had notcontinually restrained him. Three would scramble up fifteen or twentyfeet, and then drop behind boulders, while the other three kept up aheavy fire on the summit; and then the rear rank would advance to aline with their position, while they shelled the enemy. All the time arain of bullets was splashing on the rocks all about us, but luckilyfor us they did not expose themselves enough to deliver an accuratefire. 

After we had made five or six such rushes, and were about half-way up, we could hear the voices of what sounded like the larger part of theband receding. Supposing they were swinging for the two side walls toflank us we doubled our speed and presently dropped beneath the shelterof a wall of rock about four feet high, from behind which our enemy hadbeen firing. 

Two or three minutes earlier their fire had ceased, and what to make ofit we did not know. We found that an exposure of our hats on ourgun-muzzles drew no fire; yet, driven by sheer desperation, andexpecting that every man of us would get shot full of holes, wesimultaneously sprang over the rock, and dropped flat on thesummit--amid utter silence, about the most happily surprised lot of menin all Mexico! The enemy had decamped. But where? And with whatpurpose? And why had they not flanked us!

Careful scouting soon showed they had retired in a body down the trailwe must follow to reach Musquiz, as for nearly three miles the descentwas as rough and difficult as the ascent had been. 

Leaving Cress, who was ill, and Manuel, who was weak from loss ofblood, to hold the summit, the rest of us descended to fetch up ourhorses, and a hard hour's job we had of it, for we packed on our backsthe load of the dead pack horse and those of his mates the last half ofthe ascent, rather than risk losing another animal. 

Upon our return we found Manuel gloating over three trophies--a hatshot through the side by a ball that had evidently "creased" thewearer's head, an old Spanish spur and a gun scabbard--which he seemedto find salve for the burning wound in his side. 

Beneath us to the north lay Musquiz, in plain sight, a scant six milesdistance. In the clear dry air of the hills, it looked so near that agood running jump might land one in the plaza, and yet none of usexpected we all should enter it again. The odds were against it, forbelow us lay three miles of hill trail any step down which might landus in a worse ambush than the last and we never imagined the enemywould fail to engage us again. But the descent had to be made, anddown it we started, Cress and Manuel bringing up the rear with thehorses, the rest of us scouting ahead, dodging from rock to tree, advancing slowly, expecting a volley, but receiving none. 

For a mile the band followed the trail, and we followed their freshtracks; then they left the trail and turned west through the timber. However, we never abated our watchfulness until well out of the hillsand near the outskirts of the town, which we reached shortly afternoon. There, breakfasting generously if not comfortably with Don Abranand his gamecocks, I got news that made me less regretful of my failureto obtain the Santa Rosa Ranch: one of its two Scotch purchasers hadbeen killed two days before my return, in attempting to repel a raid onhis camp by Nicanor Rascon!

With Cress too ill to travel, the next morning I left Crawford to carefor him, bade farewell to good old Don Abran, and started for Lampasoswith Thornton and Curly. 

We nooned at Santa Cruz, a big sheep ranch midway between Musquiz andProgreso, leaving there about two o'clock. An hour later, we heardbehind us a clatter of racing hoofs, and presently were overtaken by ahatless Mexican, riding bareback at top speed, who told us that shortlyafter our departure the Lipans had raided Santa Cruz, and that of itstwelve inhabitants, men, women and children, he was the only survivor. Thus were the Lipans still levying heavy toll for their wrongs!

Toward evening we entered Progreso a village reputed among the nativesto be a nest of thieves and assassins. While Thornton was away buyingmeat and I was rearranging our pack, six of the ugliest-lookingMexicans I ever saw strolled across the plaza, evidently to size up ouroutfit. Apparently it was to their liking, for when, twenty minuteslater, we were riding into the ford of the Rio Salado just south of thetown, the six, all heavily armed, loped past us, and when they emergedfrom the ford openly and impudently divided, three taking to the brushon one side of the road, and three on the other, riding forward andflanking the trail we had to follow. From then till dark their hatswere almost constantly visible, two or three hundred yards ahead of us. Our horses being so jaded, we were sure they were not the prize sought, and it remained certain they were after our saddles and arms. 

Riding quietly on behind them until it was too dark to see our move orfollow the trail, we slipped off to the westward of the road, andcamped in a deep depression in the plain, where we thought we couldventure a small fire to cook our supper. But the fire proved ablunder. Before the water was fairly boiling in the coffee pot, Curlysignalled trouble, and we jumped out of the fire-light and dropped flatin the bush just as the six fired a volley into the camp, one of theshots hitting the fire and filling our frying-pan with cinders andashes. For an hour or more they sneaked about the camp, constantlyfiring into it, while we lay close without returning a single shot, content they would not dare try to rush us while uncertain of ourposition. And so it proved, for at length Curly's warnings ceased, andwe knew they had withdrawn. 

Waiting till midnight, we saddled and packed and made a wide detour tothe west, striking the road again perhaps four miles nearer Lampasos, which we reached safely late in the next afternoon; our grand oldcamp-guard, Curly, in better condition than either of us. 

Curiously, seven months later, in August, 1883, while on anotherranch-hunting trip in Mexico, this time along the eastern slope of theSierra Madre in northern Chihuahua at least five hundred miles distantfrom Musquiz, I learned the solution of our puzzle as to whether ourlast fight in Coahuila was with Lipans or Mexicans. The manager of theCorralitos Ranch, which I was then engaged in examining, was AdolphMunzenberger. The previous Winter he had lived in Musquiz, asSuperintendent of the Cedral Coal Mines. While there, however, I hadnot met him or his family. 

One evening at dinner, Mrs. Munzenberger asked me, "Have you ever, perchance, been in Coahuila?"

"Yes, " I answered, "I spent several weeks in the State last Winter. "

"And how did you like it?" she asked. 

"Well, I must say I found rather too many thrills there for comfort, " Ireplied. And when I mentioned affair on the sierra south of Musquiz, she broke in with:

"Indeed! And you are the crazy gringo Don Abran tried to stop fromgoing into the desert! We heard of it; in fact, it was the talk of thetown, and no one expected you would ever get back. And by the way, itwas a contraband _conducta_ owned by friends of ours who attacked youback of the town! Droll, is it not?"

"Perhaps--now, " I doubtfully answered. 

"Yes, " Mrs. Munzenberger continued, "they were on their way toMonclova. The night before the attack, the wife of the owner (one ofthe leading merchants of the town) took me to their camp in the brushnear town to see their goods; and a lovely lot of American things theyhad. "

"But why did they attack us?" I queried. 

"Well, you see, it was this way, " she explained. "The smugglers brokecamp long before dawn, and started south over the same trail by whichyou were approaching; they wanted to get over the summit before theLipans or guards were likely to be stirring, for it was a point atwhich _conductas_ were often attacked. But shortly after sunrise, andjust as they advance guard reached the summit, they discovered yourparty ascending, and, mistaking your uniformed soldiers for guardias, the leader lined a dozen of his men along the ridge, and opened on you, while his _mayordomo_ rushed the pack mules of the _conducta_ back downthe trail they had come. Early in the fight they discovered you wore aparty of _gringos_, and not guards, and decamped as soon as their_conducta_ had time to reach a point where they could leave the rail. 

"Had their goods not been at stake, they would have wiped you out, ifthey could, for the leader's brother got shot in the head of which hedied the same day. Indeed, when the two men you left behind started toleave the country, he had planned to follow and kill them, but luckilyDon Abran heard of it, and restrained him. "

And this explained the mystery why they had not flanked us!

Brave to downright rashness, George Thornton lasted only about twoyears longer. 

The Winter of 1883-84 he spent with me on my Pecos Ranch. Early in theSpring he came to me and said:

"Old man, if you want to do me a favor, get me an appointment as DeputyUnited States Marshal in the Indian Territory. I'm going to quit you, anyway. My guns are getting rusty. It's too slow for me here. "

"Why, George, " I replied, "if you are bound to die why don't you blowyour brains out yourself?"--for at the time few new marshals in theIndian Territory survived the first year of their appointment. 

"Never mind about me, " he answered; "I'll take care of George. Anyway, I'd rather get leaded there than rust here. "

So I got him the appointment. 

A few months later, when the Territory was thrown open to settlement, Thornton homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres of land which earlybecame a town site, and now is the business centre of the city ofGuthrie. Had he lived and retained possession of his homestead, itwould have made him a millionaire. But greedy speculators soon starteda contest of his title. 

While this contest was at its height, one day Thornton learned someIndians living a few miles from the town were selling whiskey, contraryto Federal law. As he was mounting for the raid, having intended to goalone, a man he scarcely knew offered to accompany him, and Thorntonfinally deputized him. 

The story of his end was told by the Indians themselves, who later werecaptured by a large force of marshals, and tried for his murder. Theysaid that just at dusk they saw two horsemen approaching. Presentlythey recognized Marshal Thornton and at once opened fire on him, eightof them, from behind the little grove of cottonwoods in which they werecamped. Immediately Thornton shifted his bridle to his teeth, andcharged them straight, firing with his two ". 41" Colts. The moment hecharged, his companion dodged into a clump of timber, where they sawhim dismount. On came Thornton straight into their fire shooting withdeadly accuracy, killing two of their number, and wounding anotherbefore he fell. 

Presently, at the flash of a rifle from the brush where his companionhad dismounted, Thornton pitched from his horse dead. They had donetheir best to kill him, they frankly swore, but it was his own deputy'sshot that laid him low. 

All the collateral circumstantial evidence so fully corroborated thisthat the Indians were acquitted. The shot that killed him hit him inthe back of the head and was of a calibre different from that of theIndians' guns; and his deputy never returned to Guthrie. 

That it was a murder prearranged by some of the greedy contestants forhis land, was further proved by the fact that every scrap of hisprivate papers was found to have disappeared, and, through their loss, his family lost the homestead. 

Curly's end is another story. Happily he was spared to me some years. 

CHAPTER X

THE THREE-LEGGED DOE AND THE BLIND BUCK

We had just pulled the canoe out of the water and turned it over after awet day in the bush across Giant's Lake, and were drying ourselves beforethe camp-fire, when Con taught a lesson and perpetrated a confidence. His keen, shrewd eyes twinkling, and a broad smile shortening his long, lean face till its great Roman nose and pointed chin were hobnobbingsociably together, the best hunter and guide on the Gatineau sat pouringboiling water through the barrel and into the innermost holy of holies ofthe intricate lock mechanism of his . 303 Winchester--_to dry it out andprevent rusting_ from the wetting it had received in the bush. 

"Sure! youse never heerd of it before?" he asked in surprise. "Dryin' agun with hot water 's safest way to keep her from rustin'; carries outall th' old water hangin' round her insides 'n' makes her so damned hotMr. Rust don't even have time to throw up a lean-to 'n' get to eatin' ofher 'fore the new water's all gone; 'n' Mr. Rust can't get to eat none'thout water, no more'n a deer can stay out of a salt lick, or Erne Moorecan keep away from the _habitaw_ gals, or Tit Moody can get his ownconsent to stop his tongue waggin' off tales 'bout how women winks downt' Tupper Lake--when _he's_ rowin' 'em. "

"Shouldn't think such a little water as you have used would make the gunhot enough to dry it out, " I suggested. 

"Hot! Won't make her hot! Why, she's hotter now 'n' billy Buell gotlast October when that loony _habitaw_ cook o' ourn made up all ourmarmalade and currant jelly into pies that looked 'n' bit 'n' tasted likewagon dope wropt in tough brown paper; hot! 's hot this minute 's EliseLièvre's woman got last Spring when she heerd o' him a-sittin' up t' aOtter Lake squaw. Why, say! youse couldn't no more keep a gun fromrustin' in this wet bush 'thout hot water than Warry Hilliams can killanything goin' faster than three-legged deer. 

"Rust! Youse might 'a well try to catch a _habitaw_ goin' to a weddin''thout more ribbons on his bridle 'n' harness than his gal has on hergown 's hunt for rust in a hot-watered gun!"

Catching a hint of a yarn, I asked if there were many three-legged deerin the bush. 

"W'an't but one ever, far 's I know, " he replied. "'N' almighty lucky itwas for Warry that one come a-limpin' along his way, for it give him th'only chance he'll probably ever have to say he got to shoot a deer. 

"Warry? Why he's jest the best ever happened--'t least the best everhappened 'round this end o' the bush. Lives down to----; better not tellyou right where he lives, for I stirred up th' letters in his name, so 'fany of his friends heerd you tell th' story they won't know it's on_him_; fer he's jest that good I'd rather hurt anybody, 'cept my woman orbird, than hurt him. 

"Warry! Why, with a rod 'n' line 'n' reel, whether it's with flies, spoons, or minnows, castin' or trollin', or spearin' or nettin', Warry'sth' _ex_pertest fish-catcher that ever waded the rapids or paddled th'lakes o' this old Province o' Quebec. But it's gettin' a _leetle_ hardfor Warry late years--fish 's come to know him so well that after he'smade a few casts 'n' hooked one or two that's got away, they know histricks so well they just passes the word 'round, 'n' it's 'pike' for th'pike, 'beat it' for th' bass, 'trot' for th' trout, 'n' 'skip' for thesalmon, until now, after th' first day or two, 'bout all Warry can get inreach of 's mud turtles. 

"'N'd that's what comes o' knowin' too much and gettin' too _damned_smart--nobody or nothin' left to play with! Warry? Why, say, if he'donly knowed it thirty or forty years ago, Warry had th' chance to live 'ndie with th' _re_pute o' bein' th' greatest sport specialist that everbusted through the Quebec bush--if he'd only jest kept to fishin'. Butthe hell o' it is, Warry's always had a fool idee in his head he canhunt, 'n' he can't, can't sort o' begin to hunt! 'N' darned if I couldever quite figure out why, 'n' him so smart, 'nless because he goespoundin' through the bush like a bunch o' shantymen to their choppin', with his head stuck in his stummick, studyin' some new trick to play on atrout, makin' so much noise th' deer must nigh laugh theirselves to deathat _him_ a-packin' o' a gun. 

"Hunt? Warry? Does he hunt? Sure, every year for th' last thirty yearsto my knowledge--only that's all; he jest hunts, never kills nothin'. Leastways he never did till three year ago, 'n' I ought t' know, for Ialways guides for him. Why, I mind one time he was stayin' over on theKagama, he got so hungry for meat he up 'n' chunks 'n' kills 'n' cooks'n' eats a porcupine, th' p'rmiscous shootin' o' which is forbid byQuebec law, 'cause they're so slow a feller can run 'em down 'n' get 'emwith a stick or stone, 'n' don't need t' starve just 'cause he's got nogun. 

"Three years ago he'd been up for the fly fishin' in late June 'n'trollin' for gray trout in September, 'n then here he comes again th'last week in October t' hunt. 'N' she was the same old story: nothingdoing!

"I could set him on th' best runways, 'n' Erne 'n' me could dog th' bushtill our tongues hung out 'n' we could hardly open our mouths 'thoutbarkin'; could run deer past him till it must 'a looked--if he'd had aloose look about him--like a Gracefield _habitaw_ weddin' pr'cession, 'n'thar he'd set with his eyes fast on th' end o' his gun, I guess, a-waitin' for a sign of a _bite_ 'fore he'd jerk her up to try 'n' getsomethin'. 'N' the queerest part was, he seemed to enjoy it just 's much's if he'd brought down a three-hundred-pound buck to drag the wind outo' Erne 'n' me at th' end o' a tump-line. Most fellers 'd got mad 'n'cussed their luck. But not him--kindest, sweetest-tempered man I everknew. Guess he knowed we'd done our best 'n' had some kind o' secretinside information that he hadn't. 

"O' course, sometimes Warry'd get his gun on, but by that time th' deerhad quit th' runway 'n' was in th' lake up to their bellies pullin' lilypads, or curled up in th' long grass o' a swale fast asleep. 

"But all fellers has a day sometime, if they lives long enough--thoughsome o' them seems t' have t' get t' live a almighty long time t' get t'see it. At last Warry's came. 

"Erne 'n' me been doggin' a swamp where th' deadfall tangle was so thickwe was so nigh stripped o' clothes we couldn't 'a gone t' camp if there'dbeen any women about. Drivin' toward where a runway crossed a neck'tween two lakes, a neck so narrow two pike could scarce pass each otheron it, there we'd sot Warry 't th' end o' th' neck. Jest 'fore we got t'him we heard a shot, 'n' I remarked t' Erne, 'Guess th' old man thinkshe's got a _bite_. ' 'N' then we broke through a thick bunch o' spruce;'n' we both nigh fell dead to see old Warry sawin' at th' throat o' adoe, tryin' to 'pear 's natural 's if he'd never done nothin' else butkill 'n' dress deer. Mebbe Erne 'n' me wan't pleased none th' old manhad made a kill!

"Erne was ahead; 'n' just as Warry rose up from th' throat-cuttin', Ernedropped into th' weeds 'n' rolled 'n' 'round holdin' o' his stummick, laughin' fit t' kill his fool self, till I thought he'd gone crazy. Thenmy eye lit on th' fore quarters o' th' doe, 'n' I guess I throwed moretwists laughin' than Erne did--_for that there doe was shy a leg_, hadn'tbut three legs; nigh fore leg gone midway 'tween knee and dewclaw, shotoff 'n' healed up Godo'mi'ty knows when. 

"Warry? He didn't seem t' care none, too darned glad t' get anythin'shape o' a deer. "

That same evening one of us asked Con if he had ever run across any othermutilated game, recovered of old wounds. 

"Sure!" he answered, "'specially once when I was almighty glad to git it, 'n' a whole lot gladder still that nobody was 'round t' see 'n' know 'n'tell just what I got 'n' how I got it. She 's been a secret these fiveyear; stuck t' her tighter 'n' Erne Moore holds th' gals down t'Pickanock dances, 'n' that 's closer 'n' a burl on a birch. Fact is, Inever told nobody 'fore now; 'n' I wouldn't be tellin' it t' youse now, only just 'fore we come up here I got a letter from one o' th' twobrothers we blindfolded, sayin' his brother was dead an' he goin' t'Californy t' live, 'n' wa'n't comin' into th' bush no more. 

"If that feller got hold o' her, my brother 'n' me 'd have t' go t'Australia or th' Cape, for him that's still livin' 's just about 's meana feller 's Warry's a good one; an' any little _re_pute we've built up 'sguides 'n' hunters, he'd put in th' rest o' his life tryin' t' smash 'sflat 's that fool _habitaw_ cook got when Larry Adams sot on him forcookin' pa'tridges as soup. He'd just par'lyze her till we couldn't evenget a job goin' t' hunt 'n' fetch th' cows out o' a ten acre pasture. 'N' th' worst o' 't is I don't know that I'd blame him so almighty muchfor doin' it, for there was sure somethin' comin' t' us for foolin' themI don't believe we got yet. 

"Th' two o' them came up from across th' line--ain't goin' t' tell youwhat place they come from or even th' State--in late October, for th' twoweeks dog-runnin' season; youse know there is only two weeks th' Quebeclaw lets us run hounds, 'thout a heavy fine. Never 'd seen either o'them before, but friends o' theirs we'd been guidin' for gave brother 'n'me a big recommend, 'n' they wrote up ahead 'n' hired us t' put up th'teams t' haul them 'n' their traps in, 'n' then guide 'em. 

"Soon 's they showed up on th' depot platform at Gracefield, I knowedbrother 'n' me was up agin it hard. Train must 'a been a half-hour lategettin' to Maniwaki for th' time she lost unloadin' them two fellers'_necessities_ for a two-weeks' deer hunt: 'bout a dozen gun cases, 'n'fishin' tackle 'nough for ten men, 'n' trunks 'n' boxes that took threeteams t' haul 'em out t' th' Bertrand farm. Fact is, them boxes heldenough ca'tridges t' lick out another Kiel rebellion 'n' leave over'nough t' run all th' deer 'tween Thirty-one Mile Lake 'n' the Lievreplumb north into James's Bay, for if there's anythin' your averagesportin' deer-hunters can be counted on for sure's death 'n' taxes, it'st' begin throwin' lead, at th' rate o' about ten pound apiece a day, theminute they gets into th' bush, at rocks 'n' trees 'n' loons 'n'chipmucks--never killin' nothin' but their chance o' seein' a deer. 

"'N' these bloomin' beauties o' our'n was no exception. Th' lead theywasted on th' two-mile portage from th' Government road t' th' lake wouldequip all the Injuns on the Desert Reservation for a winter's hunt. 

"Why, when Tom 'n' me got hold o' th' box they'd been takin' ca'tridgesfrom t' heave her into the boat, she was so light, compared t' th' otherswe'd been handlin', we landed her plumb over th' boat in th' water; 'n'damned if she didn't nigh float. She was the only thing they had light'nough t' even try t' float ('cept their own shootin, ') which sure wasn'theavy 'nough t' sink none, 'n' could 'a fell out o' a canoe 'n' beenpicked up a week later bumpin' 'round with th' other worthless drift. 

"Took us a whole day to run their stuff over t' th' camp, 'n' it only amile across th' lake from th' landin'; 'n' when night come we was 's neardead beat 's if we'd been portagin' a man's load apiece on atump-line--'n' that's a tub o' pork 'n' a sack 'o flour weighin' twohundred and seventy five pounds--over every portage 'tween Pointe aGatineau 'n' th' Baskatong. 

"O' course th' gettin' them fellers over theirselves was a easydiversion, they was that t' home 'bout a canoe! Youse may not believeit, but after tryin' a half-hour 'n' findin' we couldn't even get theminto a canoe at th' landin' 'thout upsettin' or knockin' th' bottom outenher, we had t' help them into a thirty-foot 'pointer' made t' carry acrew o' eight shantymen 'n' their supplies on the spring drives, 'n' thenhad t' pull our damnedest t' get them across th' lake 'fore they upsether, jumpin' 'round 't shoot at somethin' they couldn't hit!

"'N' eat! Well, they ate a few! We was only out for two weeks, 'n' whenwe loaded th' teams 'peared t' me like we had 'nough feed for six months, but after th' first meal 't looked t' me we'd be down t' eatin' what wecould kill inside o' a week. Looked like no human's stummick could holdall they put in their faces, 'n' brother, he said he thought their legs'n' arms must be holler. 

"'N' sleep! When 't come t' wakin' of 'em up th' next mornin' they waslike a pair o' bears that 'd holed up for th' winter, 'n' it nigh tookviolence t' get 'em out at all. We started in runnin' th' hounds, 'n'brother 'n' me had the best on th' Gatineau--Frank 'n' Loud, 'n' oldBlue, 'n' Spot--dogs that can scent a deer trail 's far 's Erne Moore cansmell supper cookin', 'n' that 's far from home 's Le Blanc farm hisfather used to own, over Kagama way, 'bout eight miles from Pickanock, where he lives. We run th' dogs for four days, 'n' it was discouragin', most discouragin'. Country was full o' deer when we was last out, threeweeks before, 'n' th' dogs voiced 'n' seemed t' run plenty right down to'n' past where we'd sot th' two on th' runways; but they swore they neversee nothin', said th' hounds been runnin' on old scent, sign made thenight before. 

"Then brother 'n' me took t' doggin' too, makin' six dogs, 'n' givin' usa chance t' see anythin' that jumped up in th' bush. Still nothin' camepast 'em, they said, though we saw many a deer jump up out o' th' swamps'n' go white flaggin' theirselves down th' runways toward the two'hunters. '

"We just couldn't understand it 'n' made up our minds t' try 'n' find outwhy they never got t' see none. 

"So the sixth day I placed one o' them myself on a runway half as wide'n' beat most 's hard 's th' Government road, full o' fresh sign, pickeda place where a big pine stump stood plumb in th' middle o' th' runway, 'n' sot him behind it where he had a open view thirty yards up th' runwayth' direction we'd be doggin' from. 

"Then I let on t' break through th' bush t' th' swamp we was goin' t'dog, but 'stead o' that I only went a little piece 'n' left brother tostart th' hounds at a time we'd arranged ahead, while I lay quiet behinda bunch o' balsam 'thin fifty yards o' my hunter. After 'bout twentyminutes, the time I was supposed t' need t' get t' th' place t' start th'hounds, I heard old Frank give tongue--must 'a struck a fresh trail th'minute he was turned loose. Then it wa'n't long 'till th' other threebegan t' sing, runnin' 'n' singin' a chorus that's jest th' sweetestmusic on earth t' my ears. 

"Talk about your war 'n' patriotic songs, your 'Rule Britannias' 'n''Maple Leaves, ' your church hymns 'n' love songs, 'n' fancy French op'raslike they have down t' Ottawa that Warry Hilliams took me to wonst! Why, say, do youse think any o' them is in it with a hound chorus, th' deepbass o' th' old hounds 'n' th' shrill tenor o' th' young ones--risin' 'n'swellin' 'n' ringin' through th' bush till every idle echo loafin' in th'coves o' th' ridges wakes up 'n' joins in her best, 'n' you'd think allth' hounds in this old Province was runnin' 'n' chorusin' 'tween the Bubs'n' Mud Bay; 'n' then th' chorus dyin' down softer 'n' softer till she'slow 'n' sweet 'n' sorta holy-soundin', like your own woman's voicechantin' t' your youngest--say, do youse think there's any music in th'world 's good 's th' hounds make runnin'?

"Well, I sot there behind th' balsams till th' dogs was drawin' near, 'n'then I slips softly through th' bush t' where I'd left Mr. Hunter; 'n'how do youse s'pose I found him, 'n' it no more'n half past seven in th'mornin'? Youse never 'd guess in a thousand year. I'll jest tumplineth' whole bunch o' youse 't one load from th' landin 't' th' Bertrandfarm if that feller wa'n't settin' with his back t' th' stump, facin' upth' runway, his rifle 'tween his knees 'n' his fool head lopped over onone shoulder, _dead asleep_! No wonder they never see nothin', was it?

"First I thought I'd wake him. Then I heard a deer comin' jumpin' downth' runway, 'n' knowin' 'for I could get him wide awake 'nough t' cock'n' sight his gun th' deer 'd be on us, I slipped up behind th' stump 'n'laid my rifle 'cross its top, th' muzzle not over a foot above hisnoddin' head. I was no more'n ready 'fore here come--a buck? No, Iguess not, 'cause they was jest crazy for some good buck heads; no, jesta doe, but a good big one. Here she come boundin' along, her head halfturned listening t' th' dogs, 'n' never seein' _him_, he sot so still. When she got 'thin 'bout fifty feet I fired 'n' dropped her--'n' thenhell popped th' other side o' th' stump! Guess he thought he was jumpedby Injuns. Slung his gun one way 'n' split th' bush runnin' th' other, leapin' deadfalls 'n' crashin' through tangles so fast I had t' run him'bout fifty acres t' get t' cotch 'n' stop him. 

"That feller was with us jest about ten days longer, but he never gottime t' tell us jest what he thought was follerin' him or what was goin't' happen if he got cotched. Likely 's not he'd been runnin' yet if Ihadn't collared him. 

"O' course they was glad at last t' get some venison--leastways youse'dthink so t' see them stuffin' theirselves with it--but they never let upa minute round camp roastin' brother 'n' me for not runnin' them a buck;swore that we hadn't run 'em any was proved by my gettin' nothin' but th'doe. 

"Finally, they up 'n' wants a still-hunt! Them still-hunt, that we couldscarce get along the broadest runway 'thout makin' noises a deer'd hearhalf a mile! Still-hunt! Still-hunt, after we'd been runnin' the houndsfor a week and they'd shot off 'bout a thousand rounds o' ca'tridgesround camp 'n' comin' back from doggin', till there wa'n't a deer withineight miles o' th' lake that wa'n't upon his hind legs listenin' whereth' next bunch o' trouble was comin' from. But still-hunt it was forour'n, 'n' at it we went for th' next two days. Don't believe we'd even'a started, though, if we hadn't known two days at th' most 'd cure themo' still-huntin'. Gettin' out 'fore sun-up, with every log in th'_brules_ frosted slippery 's ice 'n' every bunch o' brush a pitfall, climbin' 'n' slidin' jumpin' 'n' balancin, ' any 'n' every kind o' legmotion 'cept plain honest walkin, ' was several sizes too big a order forthem. So th' second mornin' out settled their still-huntin'. 

"Then they wanted brother 'n' me t' still-hunt--while they laid roundcamp, I guess, 'n' boozed, th' way they smelled 'n' talked nights when wegot in. 

"'N' still-hunt we did, plumb faithful, 'n' hard 's ever in our liveswhen we was in bad need o' th' meat, for several days; 'n' would yousebelieve it? We never got a single shot. Sometimes we saw a white flagfor a second hangin' on top o' a bunch o' berry bushes--that was all;most o' th' deer scared out o' th' country, 'n' th' rest wilder 'n' Ernegets when another feller dances with his best gal. 

"Well, we just had t' give up 'n' own up beat. 'N' Goda'mi'ty! butdidn't them two cheap imitation hunters tell us what they thought o' uspr'fessionals--said 'bout everything anybody could think of, 'cept cussus. 'N' there was no doubt in our minds they wanted to do that. Ifthey'd been plumb strangers, 'stead o' friends o' one o' our parties, it's more'n likely brother 'n' me'd wore out a pair o' saplings overtheir fool heads, 'n' paddled off 'n left them t' tump-line theirselvesout o' th' bush. But I told brother 't was only a day or two more, 'n'we'd chew our own cheeks 'stead o' their ears. 

"The last day we had in camp they asked us t' make one more try with th'hounds. We took th' two ridges north o' th' shanty deer-lick 'n' drovewest, with them on a runway sure to get a deer if there was any left t'start runnin'. Scarcely ten minutes after we loosed th' hounds I heardthem stopped 'n' bayin', over on th' slope o' th' ridge brother was on, bayin' in a way made me just dead sure they had a bear. 

"Now a bear-kill, right then t' go home 'n' lie about, tellin' how theyfit with it, would 'a suited our sham hunters better 'n' a whole passleo' antlers; so I busted through th' bush fast as I could, fallin' 'n'rippin' my clothes nigh off--only t' find our hounds snappin' 'n' bayin'round a mighty big buck, that when I first sighted him, seemed to be jeststandin' still watchin' th' hounds. Never saw a deer act that waybefore, 'n' him not wounded, 'n' nobody'd shot. Jest couldn't figure 'tout at all. But I was so keen t' get them fellers a bunch o' horns Ididn't stop t' study long what p'rsonal private reasons that buck had forstoppin' 'n' facin' th' hounds. 

"I was in the act o' throwin' my . 303 t' my face, when brother hollerednot t' shoot, 'n' t' come over t' him. 'N' by cripes! while I wascrossin' over t' brother, what in th' name o' all th' old hunters thatever drawed a sight do youse think I noted about that buck? Darned ifthat buck wa'n't _blind_--stone blind--blind 's a bat!

"Poor old warrior! He'd stand with his head on one side listenin' t' th'hounds till he had one located close up, 'n' then he'd rear 'n' plunge atth' hound; 'n' if there happened t' be a tree or dead timber in his way, he'd smash into it, sometimes knockin' himself a'most stiff. But whenall was clear th' hounds stood no show agin him, blind as he was. OldLoud 'n' Frank, that naturally put up a better fight than th' young dogs, he tore up with his front hoofs so bad they like t' died. 

"Run th' buck knowed he couldn't, 'n' there he stood at bay t' fight to afinish 'n' sell out dear 's he could. If it hadn't been a real kindnesst' kill him, I'd never 'a shot that brave old buck, 'n' left our hunterst' buy any horns they _had_ t' have down t' Ottawa. But he was alreadypore 'n' thin 's deer come out in March, 'n' if we let him go 'd be suret' starve or be ate by th' wolves. So I put a . 303 behind his shoulder, 'n' brother 'n' me ran up 'n' chunked th' dogs off. 

"'N' what do youse think we found had blinded that buck? Been lately ina terrible fight with another buck. His head 'n' neck 'n' shoulders wascovered with half-healed wounds where he'd been gashed 'n' tore by th'other's horns 'n' hoofs; 'n' somehow in the fight both his eyes 'd gotput out! Guess when he lost his eyes th' other buck must a' been 'boutdead himself, or it 'd 'a killed him 'fore quittin'. 

"Then it hit brother 'n' me all of a heap that we'd be up agin it jest aleetle bit too hard t' stand if we hauled a blind buck into camp; fellers'd swear that t' get t' kill a buck at all brother 'n' me had t' rangeth' bush till we struck a blind one; 'n' then they'd probably want us t'go out 'n' see if we couldn't find some sick or crippled 'nough so wecould get to shoot 'em. 

"Brother was for leavin' him 'n' sayin' nothin'; but th' old feller had agrand pair o' horns it seemed a pity t' lose, 'n' so I just drove a . 303sideways through his eyes; 'n' when we got t' camp we 'counted for th'two shots in him by tellin' them he was circlin' back past us 'n' we bothfired t' wonst. 

"'N' by cripes! t' this day nobody but youse knows that Con Teeplesdogged 'n' still-hunted th' bush for two weeks for horns 'thout killin'nothin' but a blind buck. "

CHAPTER XI

THE LEMON COUNTY HUNT

One crisp winter morning a party of us left New York to spend the weekend at the Lemon County Hunt Club. It was there I first met Sol, thedean of Lemon County hunters and for eight seasons the winner, againstall comers, of the famous annual Lemon County Steeple Chase. At thehurdles, whether in the great public set events or in private contests, Sol was never beaten, while in the drag hunts it was seldom indeed hewas not close up on the hounds from "throw-in" to "worry. "

To the Club Mews he had come under the tragic name of Avenger, but suchwas the marvellous equine wisdom he displayed that at the finish of histhird hunt in Lemon County, he was rechristened Solomon by his newowner--soon shortened to Sol for tighter fit among sulphurous huntexpletives. At that night's dinner Sol and his deeds were the chieftopic of conversation and also its principal toast. And why not, whenno hunting stable in the world holds a horse in all respects his equal?Why not toast a horse now twenty-six years old who has missed no run ofthe Lemon County hounds for the last eight years, never for a singlehunting-day off his feed or legs? Why not toast a horse that takesordinary timber in his stride and eats up the stiffest stone walls foreight full hunting seasons without a single fall? Why not toast ahorse with the prescience and generalship of a Napoleon, a horse whodrives straight at all obstacles in a fair field, but who neverimperils his rider's head beneath over-hanging boughs; who foresees andevades the "blind ditches" and other perils lurking behind hedges andwalls and who lands as steady and safe on ice as he takes off out ofmuck? Why not toast this venerable but still indomitable King ofHunters?

The next morning it was my privilege to meet him. In midwinter, he ofcourse was not in condition. Descriptions of his weird physique, andjests over his grotesquely large and ill-shaped head, made by half adozen voluble huntsmen over post-prandial bottles, I thought hadprepared me against surprise. Certainly they had described such ahorse as I had never seen. 

But having come to the door of his box, I was astounded to seeslouching lazily in a corner with eyes closed, the nigh hip droppedlow, a horse that at first glance appeared to be Don Quixote'sRosinante reincarnate, a gigantic "crow-bait" with a head as long andcoarse as an eighteen-hand mule's, an under lip pendulous as a camel'sdropping ears nearly long enough to brush flies off his nostrils, withsuch an ingrowing concavity of under jaw and convexity of face as wouldhave enabled his head to supply the third of a nine-foot circle, a facecurved as a scimitar and nearly as sharp. Both in shape and dimensionsit was the grossest possible caricature of a Roman-nosed equine headthe maddest fancy could conceive. 

Slapped lightly on the quarter, Sol was instantly transformed. 

Eyes out of which shone wisdom preternatural in a horse, opened andlooked down upon us with the calm questioning reproach one might expectfrom a rude awakening of the Sphinx; then the tall ears straightenedand the great bulk rose to the full majesty of its seventeen hands; andwhile slats, hip bones, and shoulder blades were distressinglyprominent, a glance got the full story of Sol's wonderful deeds andmatchless record for safe, sure work. 

With massive, low-sloping shoulders, tremendous quarters, exceptionally short of cannon bone and long from hock to stifle as agreyhound; with a breadth of chest and a depth of barrel beneath thewithers that indicated most unusual lung capacity, behind thethroat-latch Sol showed, in extraordinary perfection, all the bestpoints of a thoroughbred hunter that make for speed, jumping ability, and endurance. 

And as he so stood, a flea-bitten, speckled white in color, he lookedlike a section out of the main snowy range of the Rocky Mountains: thetwo wide-set ears representing the Spanish Peaks; his sloping necktheir northern declivity; his high withers, sharply outlined vertebrae, and towering quarters the serrated range crest; his banged tail aglacier reaching down toward its moraine!

Sol needed exercise, and that afternoon I was permitted the privilegeof riding him. Mounted from a chair and settled in the saddle, I feltas if I must surely be bestriding St. Patrick's Cathedral. But at ashake of the reins the parallel ceased. His pasterns were supple as anArab four-year-old's, his muscles steel springs. 

Myself quite as gray as Sol and, relatively, of about the same age, aslives of men and horses go, we early fell into a mutual sympathy thatsoon ripened into a fast friendship. At Christmas I returned to theClub to spend holiday week, in fact sought the invitation to be withSol. Every day we went out together, Sol and I, morning and afternoon. Bright, warm, open winter days, so soon as the spin he loved wasfinished, I slid off him, slipped the bit from his mouth (leavinghead-stall hanging about his neck), and left him free to nibble thejuicy green grasses of some woodland glade and, between nibble times, to spin me yarns of his experiences. For the subtle sympathy thatexisted between us--sprung of our trust in one another and sublimatedin the heat of our mutual affection had sharpened our perceptions untilintellectual inter-communication became possible to us. I know Solunderstood all I told him, and I don't think I misunderstood much hetold me. So here is his tale, as nearly as I can recall it. 

"Ye know I'm Irish, and proud of it. It's there they knew best how tomake and condition an able hunter. No pamperin', softenin' idleness inbox stalls or fat pastures, or light road-joggin', goes in Irelandbetween huntin' seasons. It's muscle and wind we need at our trade inIreland, and neither can be more than half diviloped in the few weeks'light conditionin' work that all English and most Americancross-country riders give their hunters. Steady gruellin' work is whatit takes to toughen sinews and expand lungs, and it's the Irishhuntsman that knows it. So between seasons we drag the ploughs andpull the wains, toil at the rudest farm tasks, and thus are kept incondition on a day's notice to make the run or take the jump of ourlives. 

"Humiliatin'? Hardly, when we find it gives us strength and stayingpower to lead the best the shires can send against us: they've neitherpower nor stomach to take Irish stone and timber. 

"'It's a royal line of blood, his, ' I've often heard Sir Patrick say;'a clean strain of the best for a hundred years, by records of me ownfamily. His head? There was never a freak in the line till he came;and where the divil and by what misbegotten luck he came by it is themystery of Roscommon. And it's by that same token we call him Avenger, for no sneerin' stranger ever hunted with him that didn't get thedivil's own peltin' with clods off his handy Irish heels. '

"And the head groom had it from the butler and passed it on to me thatthe old Master of the Roscommon Hounds was ever swearin' over his thirdbottle, of hunt nights, when I was no more than a five-year-old and theyoungsters would be fleerin' at Sir Pat over the shape of me head:

"'Faith, an' it's Avenger's head ye don't like, lads, is it? By thepowers o' the holy Virgin but it's me pity ye have that none of ye canshow the likes in your stables. By the gray mare that broke KingCharlie's neck, it's the head of him holds brains enough to distinguishten average hunters, brains no ordinary brain pan could hold; an' it'sa brain-box shape of a shot sock makin' the disfigurin' hump below hiseyes. It's a four-legged gineral is Avenger, with the cunnin'foresight of a Bonaparte and the cool judgment of a Wellington. '

"Ah! but they were happy days on the old sod, buckin' timber, flyin'over brooks, stretchin' over stone or lightin' light as bird atop ofwalls too broad to carry and springin' on, with a good light-handed manup that knew his work and left ye free to do yours! And a sad night itwas for me when Sir Pat, stripped by years of gambling of all he ownedbut the clothes he stood in and me, staked and lost me to a huntvisitor from Quebec!

"I was a youngster then, only a nine-year-old, but I'll niver forgetthe two weeks' run from Queenstown to Quebec whereon hunting tableswere reversed and I became the rider and the ship me mount, acrosscountry the roughest hunter ever lived through: niver a moment of easyflat goin', but an endless series of gigantic leaps that nigh jouted meteeth loose, churned me insides till they wouldn't even hold dry feed, and gave me more of a taste than I liked of what I had been givin'Roscommon huntsmen over lane side wall jumps--a rise and a jolt, a riseand a jolt, till it was wonderin' I was the ears were not shaken fromme head. 

"Humiliation? It was there at Quebec I got it! In old Roscommonusually it was lords and ladies rode me of hunt days, men and womenbred to the game as I meself was. 

"But at Quebec, the best--and I had the best--were beefy members oftheir dinkey colonial Government or fussy, timid barristers I had tocarry on me mouth. Seldom it was I carried a good pair of hands and acool head in me nine years' runnin' with the Quebec and Montrealhounds. And lucky the same was for me, for it forced me to take thebit in me teeth, rely on meself, and regard me rider no more than if hewere a sack of flour: I jist had it to do to save me own legs and merider's neck, for to run by their reinin' and pullin' would havebrought us a cropper at about two out of every three obstacles. Faith, and I believe it's an honest leaper's luck I've always had with me, anyway, for me Quebec work was jist what I needed to train me for anhonorable finish with the Lemon County Yankees. 

"One Autumn night years ago, when I was eighteen, a clever young Yankeevisitor from New York appeared at our club. For two days I watched hiswork on other mounts, and liked it. He was good as any two-leggedproduct of the old sod itself, a handsome youngster a bit heavier thanSir Pat, a reckless, deep drinkin', hard swearin', straight ridin'sort, but with a head and hands ye knew in a minute ye could trust, byname Jack Lounsend. The third hunt after his arrival, it was medelight to carry him, and for the first time in years to allow me riderhis will of me. And you can bet your stud and gear, I gave him thebest I had, for the sheer love of him, and him so near the likes of medear Sir Pat. 

"Nor was me work to go unvalued, for, to me great delight, he bought meand brought me to the States--straight away to Lemon County--along withtwo of me huntmates he fancied. And a sweet country I found this sameLemon County, with timber and stone nigh as stiff, and sod as sound asold Roscommon's own. 

"But troubles lay ahead of me I'd not foreseen. Instead of goin' intoJack's private string, as I'd hoped, the early record I made for closefinishes and safe, sure work made me wanted by the chief patron of thehunt, a New York multi-railroad-aire with a well diviloped habit ofgettin' everything he goes after. So, while I venture to believe Jackhated to part with me, the patron got me. 

"And a good man up the patron himself proved, one I'd always be proudenough to carry; but, as Jack used to say, the hell of it was the LemonCounty Hunt numbered more bunglin' duffers than straight riders, thesort a youngster or a hot-head would be sure to kill. 

"So when, as often happened, the patron was busy with faster runs and ahotter 'worry' than our hunt afforded, it frequently fell to me lot tocarry the half-broke of all ages, seldom a one bridle wise to our game, as sure to pull me at the take-off of a leap as to give me me head on arun through heavy mud, the sort no horse could carry and finishdacently with except by takin' the bit in his teeth and himself makin'the runnin'. And even so, it was a tough task fightin' their rottenheavy hands and loose seat! But, by the glory of old Roscommon, neveronce have I been down in me eight years with the Lemons!

"Once, to be sure, on me first run, by the way, I slashed into one ofyour brutal wire fences, the first I'd ever seen--looked a filmy thingyou could smash right through--caught a shoe in it, and nigh wrenched ashoulder blade in two. Sure, I never lost me feet, but it laid me up afew days; and you can gamble any odds you like no wire has ever caughtme since; and, more, that I now hold record as the only horse in theCounty that takes wire as readily as timber, where it'snecessary--though sure it is I'll dodge for timber every time where Iwon't lose too much in place. 

"Down they come to Lemon County, a lot of those New York beauties, menand women, togged out so properly you'd think they'd spent their wholelives in the huntin' field; but at the first obstacle you'd see theirfaces go white as their stocks, and then all over you they'd ride fromtail to ears, their arms sawin' at your mouth fit to rip your under jawoff, like they thought it was a backin' contest they were entered for. And sure back to the rear it soon was for them, back till the houndswere mere glintin' specks flyin' across a distant hill-crest, theriders' red coats noddin' poppies; back till only faint echoes reachedthem of the swellin', quaverin' chorus of the madly racin' pack; backfor all but him or her whom old Sol had his will of, --for rider neverlived could hold me to the wrong jump or throw me from my stride, norwas fence ever built I'd not find a place to leap without layin' a toeon it. 

"Once the hounds give voice, it's the divil himself couldn't hold me, whether it's the short, sharp war-cry of the Irish or the sweet, deepbell-notes of these Yankee hounds that to me ever seem chantin' amournful dirge for the quarry. Sure, it's the faster Irish hounds thatmake the grandest runnin', but it's the deep-throated mellow chorus ofa Yankee pack I love best to hear. 

"_Nouveaux riches_, whatever kind of bounders that spells, is what BobBerry calls the lot of mouth-sawers New York sends us; and whenever thepatron is out or Jack has his way, it's niver one of them I'm disgracedwith. 

"Sometimes it's me good old Jack up; sometimes hard swearin', straightgoin' Bob; sometimes little Raven, as true a pair of hands and lightand tight a seat as hunter ever had; sometimes Lory Ling, as recklessas the old Roscommon sire of him I used to carry when I was afive-year-old, with a ring in his swears, a stab in his heels, and acut in his crop that can lift a dead-beat one over as tall gates as thebest and freshest can take; sometimes it's Priest, that with thelanguage of him and the hell-at-a-split pace he'll hold a tired one tobut ill desarves the holy name he wears; and sometimes--my happiesttimes--it's a daughter of the patron up, with hands like velvet and thenerve and seat of a veteran. 

"Horse or human, it's blood that tells, every time, me word for that. Be they old or young, you can niver mistake it. Can't stop anythingwith good blood in it--gallops straight, takes timber in its stride, and finishes smartly every time. Know it may not, but it balks atnothing, sets its teeth and drives ahead till it learns. 

"And perhaps that wasn't driven well home on me last Fall!"

"Out to us came a little woman, a scant ninety-pounder I should say, sofrail she wouldn't look safe in a drag, and a good bit away on the offside of middle age; but the mouth of her had a set that showed she'dnever run off the bit in her life, and her eye--my eye! but she had aneye, did that woman. And it was hell-bent to hunt she was, bound tofollow the bounds, though all she knew of a saddle came offive-mile-an-hour jogs along town park bridle paths, and all her handslooked fit for was holdin' a spaniel. 

"Well, it was Lory and Priest took her on, turn about, usually me thatcarried her, and it was break her slender little neck I thought thedivils would in spite of me. Took her at everything and spared hernowhere, bowled her along across meadow and furrow, over water, timber, and walls, like she was a lusty five-year-old, and all the time aguyin' her in a way to take the heart out of anything but athoroughbred. 'Don't mind the fence!' Lory would sing out, 'if you geta fall, just throw your legs in the air and keep kickin' to show you'renot dead; we never want to stop for any but the dead on this hunt. 'And smash on my quarters would come her crop, and on we'd go!

"Again, when we'd be nearin' a fence across which two were scramblin'up from croppers, Lory would brace her with: 'Don't git scared at thatsmoke across the fence; it's nothin' but the boys that couldn't getover burnin' up their chance of salvation!' And into me slats herlittle heel would sock the steel, and high over the timber I'd lift herfor sheer joy of the nerve of her!

"But it was not always me that had her. One day I saw a cold-bloodgive her a fall you'd think would smash the tiny little thing intobran; landed so low on a ditch bank he couldn't gather, and up over hishead she flew and on till I thought she was for takin' the next wall byher lonesome. And when finally she hit the ground it was to so nearbury herself among soft furrows that it looked for a second as if she'dtaken earth like any other wily old fox tired of the runnin'. 

"But tired? She? Not on your bran mash! Up she springs like ayearlin' and asks Lory is her hat on straight--which it was, straightup and down over her nigh ear. 'Oh, damn your hat, ' answers Lory;'give us your foot for a mount if you're not rattled. Why, next yearyou'll be showin' your friends holes in the ground on this hunt courseyou've dug with your own head!' And up it was for her and away againon old cold-blood. Faith, but those cold-bloods make it a shamethey're ever called hunters. Fall the best must, one day or another;but while the thoroughbred goes down fightin', strugglin' for his feetand ginerally either winnin' out or givin' his rider time to fall freeif down he must go, the cold-blood falls loose and flabby as an emptysack, and he and his rider hit the ground like the divil had kickedthem off Durham Terrace. Ah, but it was the heart of a truethoroughbred had Mrs. Bruner, and whether up on cold or hot blood, along she'd drive at anything those two hare-brained dare-devils wouldpoint her at, spur diggin', crop splashin'!

"Nor is all our fun of hunt days. Between times the lads are alwayslarkin' and puttin' up games on each other out of the stock ofdivilment that won't keep till the next run, each never quite so happyas when he can git the best of a mate on a trade or a wager. 

"One day little Raven and I galloped over to Lory's place. 

"'Whatever mischief are you and His Wisdom up to?' sings out Lory toRaven, the minute we stopped at his porch. 

"'Nary a mischief, ' answers Raven; 'want some help of you. '

"'Give it a name, ' says Lory. 

"'Easy, ' says Raven; 'the master's got a new fad--crazy to mount thehunt on white horses. I've old Sol here, and Jack has a pair of handywhite ones for the two whips, but where to get a white mount for Jackstumps us. Jogged over to see if you could help us out. '

"Lory was lollin' in an easy-chair, lookin' out west across his springlot. Directly I saw a twinkle in his eye, and followin' the line ofhis glance, there slouchin' in a fence corner I saw Lory's old whitework-mare, Molly. Sometimes Molly pulled the buggy and the littleLings, but usually it was a plough or a mower for hers. I'd heard Lorysay she was eighteen years old and that once she was gray, but nowshe's white as a first snow-fall. 

"'How would old gray Molly do, Raven?' presently asks Lory. 

"'Do? Has she ever hunted?' asks Raven. 

"'Divil a hunt of anything but a chance for a rest, ' says Lory; 'neverhad a saddle on, as far as I know, but she has the quarters and lowsloping shoulders of a born jumper, and it's you must admit it. Let'shave a look at her. '

"So out across the spring lot the three of us went, to the corner whereMolly was dozin'. And true for Lory it was, the old lady had finepoints; when lightly slapped with Raven's crop she showed spirit and agood bit of action. 

"'She's sure got a good strain in her, ' says Raven; 'where did you gether, Lory?'

"'Had her twelve years, ' says Lory; 'brought her on from my Wyomingranch; she and a skullful of experience and a heartful ofdisappointment made up about all two bad winters left of my ranchinvestments. The freight on her made her look more like a back-setthan an asset, but she was a link of the old life I couldn't leave. '

"'Well, give her a try out, ' laughs Raven, 'and if she'll run a bit andjump, we may have some fun passin' her up to Jack. '

"So Lory takes her to the stable, has her saddled and mounts, and Ihope never to have another rub-down if she didn't gallop on like she'dnever done anything else--stiff in the pasterns and hittin' the groundfit to bust herself wide open, but poundin' along a fair pace. Then wewent into a narrow lane and I gave her a lead over some low bars, andhere came game old Molly stretchin' over after me like fences and herwere old stable-mates. 

"'Well, I _will_ be damned, ' says Raven; 'she's a hoary wonder. Giveher a week of handlin' and trim her up, and it'll be Jack for mother ata stiff price; he's so bent on his fad, he'll take a chance on her age. '

"And then it was clinkin' glasses and roarin' laughter in the housewith them, while I began tippin' Molly a few useful points at the gameas soon as the groom left us in adjoinin' stalls. 

"Four days later Lory brought Molly over to the hunt-club mews, and ifI'd not been on to their mischievous plot, I'll be fired if I'd knownher. It was a cunnin' one, was Lory, and he'd banged her tail, hoggedher mane, clipped her pasterns, polished her hoofs, groomed, fed up, and conditioned her, and (I do believe) polished her yellow old fangs, till she looked as fit a filly as you'd want to see. 

"And soon after, when Molly was unsaddled and stalled, into an emptybox alongside of me slips Lory with Tom, the best whip and seat of ourhunt, and says Lory: 'You never seem to mind riskin' your neck, Tom. '

"'Thank ye kindly, sir, ' says Tom; 'hall in the day's work. '

"'Well, if you'll give the old gray mare a week's practice at wall andtimber, gettin' out early when none but the sun and the pair of you areyet up, I'll give you the little rifle you lovin'ly handled at my placethe other day. But mind, it's your neck she may break at the firstwall, for I've niver taken her over anything much higher than a pigsty. '

"'Right-o, sir, ' says Tom; 'an' there's any jump in the old girl, I'llgit it out of 'er. '

"The next Saturday afternoon, the biggest meet of the season, up ridesthat divil of a Lory on Molly, him in a brand-new suit of ridin' togsand her heavy-curbed and martingaled like she was a wild four-year-old, the pair lookin' so fine I scarce knew the man or Raven the mare. 

"'Hi, there, Lory!' says Raven; 'wherever did you get the corkin' whiteun?'

"'Sh-h-h! you damn fool, ' says Lory. 

"'The hell you say!' whispers Raven, reins aside, chucklin' low to thetwo of us, and with a knee-press which I knew meant, 'Sol, jist youwatch 'em!'

"And we were no more than turned about when up rides the master, Jack, both ears pointin' Molly, and says:

"'Good-looker you have there, Lory. New purchase?

"'No, indeed, ' says Lory; 'old hunter I've had some years; brought heron from the West; just up off grass and not quite prime yet; guessshe'll finish, though. 

"Think of it--the nerve of the divil--and him knowin' she was morelikely to finish at the first fence than ever to reach the check. Forthe day's course was a full ten-mile run, and a check was laid half-wayfor a blow or a change of mounts. 

"Presently the hounds opened at the 'throw-in, ' an Irish pack it takesnear a steeplechase pace to stay with, and we were off on as stiff acourse as even Lemon County can show. And a holy miracle was Lory'sridin' that day. For nigh four miles he held tight behind two dufferswho, while up on top-notchers, pulled their mounts so heavily that theytook a top rail off nearly every fence they rose to and swerved for lowwall-gaps, till he'd got Molly's nerves up a bit. Then, takin' achance on the last mile, Lory threw crop and spur into her and racedstraight ahead, liftin' her over wall and timber to try the best, untilclose up on Jack. Just then Jack turned and watched them, just as theywere approachin' a heavy four-foot jump, a broad stone wall and ditch. Sure, I thought it was all up with Lory, but at it he hurled her, andI'll be curbed if she didn't take it as cleverly as I could. 

"Old Molly finished third at the check, but at the expense of a pair ofbadly torn and bleedin' knees, got scrapin' over stone and wood, whichthat rascal of a Lory hid by swervin' to a white clay bank andplasterin' her wounds with the clay, and then she was led away by hisgroom. 

"Joggin' back from the 'worry' that evenin', Jack lay tight in Lory'sflank till Lory had consented, apparently with great reluctance, tosell him Molly for five hundred dollars. 

"The very next week, Jack, Raven, and the two whips turned out on whitehunters, Jack of course upon Molly and happy over the successfulworkin' out of his fad. But good old Jack's happiness was short-lived, for after the 'throw-in' he was not seen again of the hunt that day, The first fence Molly negotiated in fine style, but at the second shecame a terrible cropper that badly jolted Jack and knocked every lastounce of heart out of her, cowed her so completely that she'd be inthat same meadow yet if there'd not been a pair of bars to lead herthrough, and divil a man was ever found could make her try another jump. 

"Great was the quiet fun of Lory and Raven, though Lory's lasted littlelonger than Jack's joy of his white mount. Of course Jack was too gameto let on he knew he'd been done, but not too busy to sharpen a rowelfor Lory. 

"And the rankest wonder it was Lory niver saw it till Jack had himraked from flank to shoulder--just stood and took it without a blink, like a donkey takes a lash. 

"Within a week of Molly's downfall Lory was out on me one day, when uprides Jack and says:

"'There's a splendid hunter in me stable I want ye to have, Lory. Gotmore than I can keep, and your stable must be a bit shy since youparted with the white mare. He's the bay seventeen-hander in the Irishlot. Stands me over a thousand, but you can have him at your ownprice; don't want the hardest, straightest rider of the hunt shy of fitmeat and bone to carry him. '

"Belikes it was the blarney caught him, but anyway Lory buried hismuzzle in Jack's pail till he could see nothin' but what Jack said itheld, and took the bay at six hundred dollars just on a casual lookover. 

"It was a good action, a grand jumpin' form, and rare pace the bayshowed on a short try-out that afternoon, so much so I overheard Lorytellin' himself, when he was after dismounting just outside me box:'Gad! but ain't old Jack easy money!'

"But when Lory and the bay showed up at the next day's meet, I noticedthe bay's ears layin' back or workin' in a way to tell any but a blindone it was dirty mischief he was plannin'. Nor was he long playin' it. For about a third of the run the bay raced like a steeplechaser tighton the heels of the hounds, leadin' even the master, for Lory could nomore hold him than his own glee at the grand way they were takin' gatesand walls. But suddenly that bay divil's-spawn swerves from thecourse, dashes up and stops bang broadside against a barn; and there, with ears laid back tight to his head and muzzle half upturned, forfour mortal hours the bay held Lory's off leg jammed so tight againstthe barn that, rowel and crop-cut hard as he might, the only thing Lorywas able to free was such a flow of language, it was a holy wonderProvidence didn't fire the barn and burn up the pair of them. 

"And as Jack passed them I heard the divil sing not [Transcriber'snote: out?]: 'Ha! Ha! Lory! it was the gray mare wanted to jump butcouldn't, and it's the bay can jump but won't! It's an "oh hell!" foryou and a "ha! ha!" for me this time!'

"Which, while they're still fast friends, was the last word ever passedbetween them on the subject of the funker and the balker. "

CHAPTER XII

EL TIGRE

"A cat may look at a king, but the son of a village lawyer may notventure to bare his heart to the daughter of the Duque de la Torrevieja. And yet a man of our blood was ennobled early in the wars with the Moors, while the Duke's forebears were still simple men-at-arms, knighted undera name that in itself carries the ring of the heroic deeds that earnedit. "

The speaker, Mauro de la Lucha-sangre (literally "Mauro of the BloodyBattle"), stood one June morning of 1874 beneath the shade of a gnarledolive-tree on the banks of the Guadaira River, rebelliously stamping aheel into the soft turf. Son of the foremost lawyer of his native townof Utrera, educated in Sevilla at the best university of his province, already at twenty-four himself a fully accredited _licenciado_, Mauro'sfuture held actually brilliant prospects for a man of the station intowhich he was born. And yet, most envied of his classmates though he was, to Mauro himself the future loomed black, forbidding, cheerless. 

Mauro's father, by legacy from his father, was the attorney andcounsellor of the Duque de la Torrevieja; and so might Mauro have beenfor the next Duke had there not cropped out in him the daring, the loveof adventure, the pride, and the confidence that had lifted the firstLucha-sangre above his fellows. It was a case of breeding back--awayback over and past generations of fawning commoners to the times whenLucha-sangre swords were splitting Moorish casques and winning guerdons. 

Nor in spirit alone was Mauro bred back. He was deep of chest, broad ofshoulder, lithe and graceful. His massive neck upbore a head of Augustanbeauty, lighted by eyes that alternately blazed with the pride andresolution of a Cid and softened with the musings of a Manrique. Maurowas a Lucha-sangre of the twelfth century, reincarnate. 

Little is it to be wondered at that, as the lad was often his father'smessage-bearer to the Duke, he found favor in the eyes of the Duke's onlydaughter, Sofia; and still less is it to be wondered at that he earlybecame her thrall. Of nights at the university he was ever dreaming ofher; up out of his text-books her lovely face was ever rising before himin class. 

Of a rare type was Sofia in Andalusia, where nearly all are dark, for shewas a true _rubia_, blue of eye, fair of skin, and with hair of thewondrously changing tints of a cooling iron ingot. 

And now here was Mauro, just back from Sevilla, almost within arms'-reachof his divinity, and yet not free to seek her. And as the ripplingcurrent of the Quadaira crimsoned and then reddened and darkened till itseemed to him like a great ruddy tress of Sofia's waving hair, Maurosprang to his feet and fiercely whispered: "_Mil demonios!_ but she shallat least know, and then I'll kiss the old _padre_, and his musty officegood-bye and go try my hand at some man's task!"

Opportunity came earlier than he had dared hope. The very next morningthe elder Lucha-sangre sent Mauro to the castle with some papers for theDuke's approval and signature. Still at breakfast, the Duke received himin the great banquet-hall of the castle, the walls covered with portraitsof Torreviejas gone before, several of the earlier generations so dim andgray with age they looked mere spectres of the limner's art. 

While the Duke was reading the papers, Mauro stood with eyes riveted tothe newest portrait of them all, that of Sofia's mother--Sofia's veryself matured--herself a native of a northern province wherein to this dayred hair and blue eyes are a frequent, almost a prevailing type, thattell the story of early Gothic invasions. So absorbed in the picture, socompletely possessed by it was Mauro, that when the Duke turned and spoketo him, he did not hear. 

And so he stood for some moments while the Duke sat contemplating thefine lines of his face and the splendid pose of his figure; his eyeslightened with admiration, his head nodding approval. 

Then gently touching Mauro's arm, the Duke queried: "And so you admirethe Duchess, young man?"

With a start Mauro answered, after a dazed stare at the Duke: "A thousandpardons, Excellency! But yes, sir; who in all the world could fail toadmire her?"

"Yes, yes, " replied the Duke; "God never made but one other quite herequal, and her He made in her own very image--Sofia; _que Dios laaguarda_!"

Mauro gravely bowed, received the papers from the Duke, and withdrew. 

Turning to his secretary, the Duke sighed deeply and murmured: "_Diosmio!_ if only I had a son of my own blood like that boy! What a pity heshould be tied down to paltry pettifoggery!"

Meantime Mauro, striding disconsolate past an angle of the narrow gardenof the inner courtyard, was detained by a soft voice issuing from theseclusion of a bench beneath the drooping boughs of an ancient fig tree:"_Buenos dias, Don Mauro. Bueno es verte revuelto. _"

"Buenos dias, Condesa; and it is indeed good to me to be back, good tohear thy voice--the first real happiness I have known since my ears lastwelcomed its sweet tones. Good to be back! ah! Condesa Sofia, for me itis to live again. "

"But, Don Mauro--"

"A thousand pardons, Condesa, but thy duenna may join thee at any moment, and my heart has long guarded a message for thee it can no longer holdand stay whole, --a message thou mayest well resent for its grosspresumption, and yet a message I would here and now deliver if I knew Imust die for it the next minute. 

"From childhood hast thus possessed me. Never a night for the last tenyears have I lain down without a prayer to the Virgin for thy safety andhappiness; never a day but I have so lived that my conduct shall beworthy of thee. Though I am the son of thy father's _licenciado_, thouwell knowest the blood of a long line of proud warriors burns in myveins. Hope that thou mightst ever even deign to listen to me I havenever ventured to cherish--"

"But Don Mauro--"

"Again a thousand pardons, Condesa, but I must tell thee thou art thelight of my soul. Without thee all the world is a valley of bitterness;with thee its most arid desert would be an Eden. The birds are everchanting to me thy name. Every pool reflects thy sweet face. Everybreeze wafts me the fragrance of thy dear presence. Every thunderousroll of the Almighty's war-drums calls me to attempt some great heroicdeed in thine honor, some deed that shall prove to thee the lawyer's son, in heart and soul if not in present station, is not unworthy to tell tothee his love. And--"

"But, Mauro, Mauro _m--mio_!" And with a sob she arose and actually fledthrough the shrubbery. 

Two days later the betrothal of the Countess Sofia to the Count Leon, theeldest son and heir to the Duke de Oviedo, was announced by her father. And that, indeed, was what she had tried but lacked the heart to tellhim--that, wherever her heart might lie, her father had already promisedher hand!

It was a bitter night for Mauro, that of the announcement, and a sad onefor his father. Their conference lasted till near morning. The sonpleaded he must have a life of action and hazard; his country at peace, he would train for the bull ring. 

"Why not the opera, my son?" the thrifty father replied. "Thou hast agrand tenor voice; indeed the Bishop has asked that thou wilt lead thechoir of the Cathedral. With such a voice thou wouldst have action, seethe world, gain riches, while all the time playing the parts, fightingthe battles of some great historic character. "

"But no, father, " answered Mauro; "such be no more than sham fights. Notonly must I wear a sword as did the early Lucha-sangres, but I must hearit ring and ring against that of a worthy foe, feel it steal within thecover of his guard, see the good blade drip red in fair battle. True, there be no Moors or French to fight, but what soldier on reddened fieldever took greater odds than a lone _espada_ takes every time hechallenges a fierce Utrera bull? And I swear to thee, _padre mio_, whatever my calling, I shall ever be heedful of and cherish the mottothat Lucha-sangre swords have always borne: '_No me sacas sin razon; nome metes sin honor. _'" (Do not draw me without good cause; do not sheathme without honor!)

The less strong-minded of the two, the father yielded, and even furnishedfunds sufficient for a year's private tutoring by Frascuelo, then thegreatest _matador_ in all Spain. 

Thus the first time Mauro ever appeared before a public assembly was achief espada of a cuadrilla of his own, at Valladolid. An apt pupil fromthe start, bent upon reaching the highest rank, of extraordinary strengthand activity, utterly fearless but cool headed, a natural general, at theclose of his first _corrida_ he was acclaimed the certain successor ofthe great Frascuelo himself, and at the same time christened _El Tigre_(the Tiger) for the feline swiftness of his movements and the ferocity ofhis attacks. 

The next eight years were for _El Tigre_ fruitful of fame and riches bututterly arid and barren of even the most casual feminine attachment. Well educated, clever, with the manners of a courtier, and with physicalbeauty and personal charm few men equalled, he was invited by thenobility often, received as an equal by the men and literally courted bythe women. But the attentions of women were all to no purpose. For _ElTigre_ only one woman existed--Sofia, now the Duchess de Oviedo--thoughhe had never again set eyes on her from the hour of their parting beneaththe fig tree. 

Owners of large Mexican sugar estates in the valley of Cuautla, the Dukeand Sofia divided their time between Paris and Mexico. Their marriagewas far from happy. Before their union, busy tongues had brought CountLeon rumors of her admiration for Mauro, rousing suspicions that were notlong crystallizing into certainty that, while she was a faithful, honestwife, he could never win of her the affection he gave and craved. Obviously proud of her, always devoted and kind, he received from herrespect and consideration in return, which indeed was all she had togive, for the loss of Mauro remained to her an ever-gnawing grief. 

Oddly enough, fate decreed that the destiny of Mauro and Sofia should beworked out far afield from their burning Utreran plains, high up on thecool plateau of Central Mexico. 

For several years most generous offers had been made _El Tigre_ to bringhis _cuadrilla_ to Mexico, but, surfeited with fame and rolling inriches, he had declined them. At last, however, in 188-, an offer wasmade him which he felt forced to accept--six thousand dollars aperformance for ten _corridas_, to be given on successive Sundays in thePlaza Bucareli in the City of Mexico, all expenses of himself and his_cuadrilla_ to be paid by the management. And so, late in April of thatyear _El Tigre_ arrived in Mexico with his _cuadrilla_ and (as stipulatedin his contract) sixty great Utreran bulls, for the bulls of Utrera arefamed in _toreador_ history and song as the fiercest, most desperatefighters _espada_ ever confronted. 

At the first performance _El Tigre_ took the Mexican public by storm. Nosuch execution, daring, and grace had ever been seen in either Bucarelior Colon. _El Tigre_ was the toast in every club and _cafe_ of the city. Every shop window displayed his portrait. All the journals sung hispraises. Maids and matrons sighed for him. Youth and age envied him. _El Tigre's_ coffers were well-nigh bursting and his cups of joyoverflowing, all but the one none but Sofia could fill. 

Where she was at the time _El Tigre_ had no idea. And yet, whollyunsuspected by him, not only were she and the Duke in Mexico, but bothhad attended all his performances at Bucareli, up to the last, inconspicuous behind parties of friends they entertained in their box. 

Whether it was the Duke caught the pallor of Sofia's face in moments ofperil for Mauro, or the light of pride and admiration in her eyes duringhis moments of triumph, sure it is the smouldering fires of the Duke'sjealousy were rekindled, and he was prompted to plan a test of herbearing, when free of the restraint of his presence. On the morning ofthe last performance he announced that he must spend the afternoon withhis attorneys, and must leave Sofia free to make her own arrangements forattendance at the last _corrida_. 

And glad enough was she of the chance. The boxes were far too highabove, and distant from, the arena. For days she had coveted any of theseats along the lower rows of open benches, close down to the six-footbarrier between the ring and the auditorium, close down where she couldcatch every shifting expression of Mauro's mobile face, and--where hecould scarcely fail to see and recognize her. The thought of seeking inany way to meet or speak to him never entered her clean mind, but she hadbeen more nearly a saint than a woman if she had been able to denyherself such an opportunity to convey to him, in one long burning glance, a knowledge of the endurance of the love her frightened "Mauro _mio_" hadplainly confessed the night of their parting beneath the fig tree. So itnaturally followed that the Duke was barely out of the house before Sofiarushed away a messenger to reserve a section of the lower benchesimmediately beneath the box of the _Presidente_, directly in front ofwhich Mauro must come, at the head of his _cuadrilla_, to salute the_Presidente_. 

The city was thronged with visitors come to see _El Tigre_. Hotels andclubs were overflowing with them. And thousands of poor peons had formonths stinted themselves, often even gone hungry, to save enough_tlacos_ to buy admission to the spectacle, to them the greatest and mostmagnificent it could ever be their good fortune to witness. The day wasperfect, as indeed are most June days in Mexico. For two hours beforethe performance the principal thoroughfares leading to the Plaza Bucareliwere packed solid with a moving throne all dressed _en fete_. 

In no country in the world may one see such great picturesqueness, variety, and brilliancy of color in the costumes of the masses as thenstill prevailed in Mexico. Largely of more or less pure Indian blood, come of a race Cortez found habited in feather tunics and head-dressesbrilliant as the plumage of parrots, great lovers of flowers, three and ahalf centuries of contact with civilization had not served to deprivethem of any of their fondness for bright colors. Thus with the horsemenin the graceful _traje de chorro_--sombreros and tight fitting softleather jackets and trousers loaded with gold or silver ornaments, thefootmen swaggering in _serapes_ of every color of the rainbow, the womenwrapped in more delicately tinted rebosas and crowned with flowers, thewinding streets looked like strips of flower garden ambulant. 

Bucareli seated twenty thousand, and when all standing-room had beenfilled and the gates closed, thousands of late comers were shut out. 

The level, sanded ring, the theatre of action, was surrounded by asix-foot solid-planked barrier. Behind and above the barrier rose thebenches of the auditorium, the "bleachers" of the populace; they rose toa height of perhaps forty or fifty feet, while above the uppermost lineof benches were the private boxes of the _elite_. Within the ring werefive heavily planked nooks of refuge, set close to the barrier, behindwhich a hard pressed _toreador_ might find safety from a charging bull. These refuges were little used, however, except by the underlings, the_capadores_, or by capsized _picadores_; _espadas_ and _banderilleros_disdained them. On the west of the ring was the box of the _Presidente_of the _corrida _(in this instance, the Governor of the FederalDistrict); on the east the main gate of the ring through which the_cuadrilla_ entered; on the north the gate of the bull pen. 

At a bugle call from the _Presidente's_ box, the main gate swung wide andthe _cuadrilla_ entered, a band of lithe, slender, clean-shaven men, inslippers, white stockings, knee breeches, and jackets of silk ornamentedwith silver, each wearing the little queue and black rosette attachedthereto that from time immemorial Andalusian _toreadores_ have sported. 

_El Tigre_ headed the squad, followed by two junior _matadores_, three_banderilleros_, three _capadores_, and two mounted _picadores_, while atthe rear of the column came two teams of little, half-wild, prancing, dancing Spanish mules, one team black, the other white, each composed ofthree mules harnessed abreast as for a chariot race, but dragging behindthem nothing but a heavy double tree, to which the dead of the day'sfight might be attached and dragged out of the arena. 

Each of the footmen was wrapped in a large black cloak passed over theleft shoulder and beneath the right, the loose end of the cloak drapedgracefully over the left shoulder, the right arm swinging free. The_picadores_ were mounted (as usual) on old crowbaits of horses, mere bagsof skin and bones, so poor and thin that neither could even raise a trot;a broad leather blindfold fastened to their head-stalls. Each rider wasseated in a saddle high of cantle and ancient of form as those KnightsTemplar jousted in. The breast of each horse was guarded by a great sideof sole leather falling nearly to the knees, while the right leg of eachrider was incased in such a stiff and heavy leather leg-guard as torender him afoot almost helpless; and he was further guarded by stillanother side of sole leather swung from the saddle horn and covering hisleft leg and much of his horse's barrel. On the right stirrup of each_picador_ rested the butt of his lance, a stout eight-foot shaft tippedwith a sharp steel prod, barely long enough to catch and hold in thebull's hide. 

As the _cuadrilla_ entered, a regimental band played _El Hymno Nacional_, the National Anthem, while the vast audience roared and shrieked awelcome to the gladiators. 

Marching to the time of the music in long tragic strides, heads proudlyerect, right arms swinging and shoulders slightly swaying in thechallenging swagger which _toreadores affect_, the _cuadrilla_ crossedthe arena and halted, close to the barrier, in front of the_Presidente's_ box, bared their heads, gracefully saluted the_Presidente_, and received the key to the bull pen and his permission tobegin the fight. And as _El Tigre's_ eyes fell from the salute to the_Presidente_ they rested upon Sofia, doubtless from some subtletelepathic message, for it was a veritable hill of faces he confronted. There she sat on the second bench-row above the top of the barrier, matured and fuller of figure but radiant as at their Utreran parting;there she sat, her gloved hands tightly clenched, her lips trembling, hergreat blue eyes pouring into his messages of a love so deep and pure thatit needed all his self-command to keep from leaping the barrier andfalling at his feet. 

For a moment he stood transfixed, staggered, almost overcome withsurprise and delight again to see her, thrilled with the joy of hermessage, blazing with revolt at the painful consciousness that she wasand must remain another's. His emotions well-nigh stopped the beating ofhis heart. And so he stood gazing into Sofia's eyes until, self-possession recovered, he gravely bowed, turned, and waved his men totheir posts. 

Instantly all was action, swift action. Cloaks were tossed toattendants, each footman received a red cape, the two _picadores_ tookposition one on either side of the bull pen gate, the band struck up atune, the gate was opened and a great Utreran bull bounded into thearena, maddened with the pain of a short _banderilla_, with longstreaming ribbons, stuck in his neck as he entered, by an attendantperched above the gate. 

His equal had never been seen in a Mexican bull ring. While typical ofhis Utreran brothers, all princes of bovine fighting stock, thiscoal-black monster was by the spectators voted their King. Relativelylight of quarters and shallow of flank and barrel, he was unusually highand humped of withers, broad and deep of chest and heavy ofshoulders--indeed a well-nigh perfect four-legged type of a finelytrained two-legged athlete, with a pair of peculiarly straight-upstandinghorns that were long and almost as sharp as rapiers. Evidently by hisbuild, he was of a strong strain of East Indian Brahminic blood. For hisgreat weight, his activity was phenomenal--his leaps like a panther's, his turns as quick. 

Dazed for an instant by the crash of the music and the brilliant banks ofcolor about him, he stood angrily lashing his tail and pawing up the sandin clouds--"digging a grave, " as Texas cowboys used to call it--his eyesblazing and head tossing, but only for a moment. Then he charged thenearest _picador_, literally leaped so high at him that head and cruelhorns crossed above the horse's neck, his own great chest striking thehorse just behind the shoulder with such force that man and mount hit theground stunned and helpless. 

Barely were they down when he was upon them and with a single twitch ofhis mighty neck, had ripped open the horse's barrel and half amputatedone of the rider's legs. Then, diverted by the _capadores_, he whirledupon the second _picador_ and in another ten seconds had left his horsedead and the rider badly trampled. Next the _banderilleros_ tackled him, but such was his speed and ferocity that all three funked the work, andnot one of them fastened his flag in the black shoulders. 

When the bull had entered the ring, _El Tigre_ left the arena--a mostunusual proceeding. Now he returned, clad in snow-white from head tofoot, a white cap covering head and hair, his face heavily powdered. Heslipped in behind and unseen by the bull to the centre of the arena, andthere stood erect, with arms folded, motionless as a graven image. 

Presently the bull turned, saw _El Tigre_, and charged him straight. _ElTigre_ was not even facing him, for the bull was approaching from hisleft. But there he stood without the twitch of a muscle or the flickerof an eye lid, still as a figure of stone. 

A great sob arose from the audience, and all gave him up for lost, when, at the last instant before the bull must have struck, it turned andpassed him. Once more the bull so charged and passed. Whether becauseit mistook him for the ghost of a man or recognized in him a spiritmightier than its own, only the bull knew. 

Before the audience had well caught its breath, _El Tigre_, wearing againhis usual costume, was striding again to the middle of the arena, carrying a light chair, in which presently he seated himself, facing thebull, a show _banderilla_, no more than six inches long, held in histeeth. And so he awaited the charge until the bull was within actualarm's-reach, when with a swift rise from the chair and a turn of his bodyquick as that of a fencer's supple wrist, he bent and stuck theteeth-held banderilla in the bull's shoulder as he swept past. 

Now was the time for the kill. 

El Tigre received his sword, _muleta_, and cape. The _muleta_ is astraight two-foot stick over which the cape is draped, and, held in the_matador's_ left hand, usually is extended well to the right of his body. Thus in an ordinary fight the bull is actually charging the blood-redcape, and not the _matador_. But, with Sofia an onlooker, determined tomake this the fight of his life, _El Tigre_ tossed aside the _muleta_, wrapped the crimson cape about his body, and stood alone awaiting thebull's charge, his malleable sword-blade bent slightly downward, sufficiently to give a true thrust behind the shoulder, a down-curve intoheart or lungs. 

With a bull of such extraordinary activity the act was almost suicidal, but _El Tigre_ smilingly took the chance. By toreador etiquette, the_matador_ must receive and dodge the first two charges; not until thethird may he strike. On the first charge _El Tigre_ stood like a rockuntil the bull had almost reached him, and then lightly leaped diagonallyacross his lowered neck. The second charge, come an instant after thefirst, before most men could even turn, he dodged. The third he swiftlyside-stepped, thrust true, and dropped the great Utreran midway of a leapaimed at his elusive enemy. 

It was a deed magnificent, epic, and the plaza rung with plaudits whilehats, fans, and even purses and jewels showered into the arena--all ofwhich, by _toreador_ etiquette, were tossed back across the barrier totheir owners. 

Then the teams entered and quickly dragged the dead from the arena; theugly, dangerously slippery red patches were fresh sanded, and the secondbull was admitted. Thus, with more or less like incident, three morebulls were fought and killed. 

The fifth and last, however, proved a disgrace to his race. Bluff hedid, but fight he would not; the noise and crowd unnerved him. At last, frenzied with fear and seeking escape, he made a mighty leap to mount thebarrier directly in front of the box of the _Presidente_. And mount ithe did, and down it crashed beneath his weight, leaving the bull for amoment half down and tangled in the wreckage, struggling to regain hisfeet. 

Directly in front of the bull, not six feet beyond the sharp points ofhis deadly horns, sat Sofia. Indeed none about her had risen; all sat asif frozen in their places. And just as well they might have been, forescape into or through the dense mass of spectators about them wasutterly impossible. Whatever horror came they must await, helpless. 

But at the bull's very start for the barrier, _El Tigre_, realizedSofia's peril and instantly sprang empty-handed in pursuit; for it wasearly in this the last _corrida_ and he did not have his sword, Leaping the wreckage, _El Tigre_ landed directly in front of the bull, happily at the instant it regained its feet, where, with his right handseizing the bull by the nose--his thumb and two fore-fingers thrust wellwithin its nostrils--and with his left hand grabbing the right horn, witha mighty heave he uplifted the bull's muzzle and bore down upon its hornuntil he threw it with a crash upon its side that left it momentarilyhelpless. 

But, himself slipping in the loose wreckage, down also _El Tigre_ fell, the bull's sharp right horn impaling his left thigh and pinning him tothe ground. 

Before the bull could rise, the men of the _cuadrilla_ had it safelybound and _El Tigre_ released. _El Tigre_, however, did not know it. With the shock and pain of his wound he had fainted. 

When at length he regained consciousness, it was to find his headpillowed in Sofia's lap, her soft fingers caressing his brow, her tearfuleyes looking into his, and to hear her whisper: "Mauro _mio_!"

Just at this moment the Duke de Oviedo approached, no one knew whence. 

White with jealousy but steady and cool, he quietly remarked:

"Madame, I ought to kill you both, but that my rank precludes. Lucha-sangre, in yourself, as son of a notary and hired _toreador_ andpurveyor of spectacles, you are unworthy of my sword; nevertheless bloodonce noble is in your veins. And so as noble it suits me now to countyou. As soon as you are recovered of your wound I will send you mysecond. "

"Most happy, Duke, " answered Mauro; "mine shall be ready to meet him. "

One evening a week later, while the Duke de Oviedo and two Mexican armyofficers were having drinks at the bar of the Cafe Concordia, GeneralDelmonte, a Cuban long resident in New York and a distinguished veteranof three wars, entered with two American friends. Delmonte wasdescribing to his friends _El Tigre's_ last fight, lauding his prowess, extolling his noble presence and high character. Infuriated by theardent praise of his enemy, the Duke grossly insulted GeneralDelmonte--and was very promptly slapped in the face. 

They fought at daylight the next morning, beneath an arch of the ancientaqueduct, just outside the city. Encountering in Delmonte one of thebest swordsmen of his time, early in the combat the Duke received amortal wound. And as he there lay gasping out his life, he murmured aphrase that, at the moment, greatly puzzled his seconds:

_"Gana El Tigre. _" (The Tiger Wins!)

CHAPTER XIII

BUNKERED

It seems it must have been somewhere about the year 4000 B. C. That welost sight of the tall peaks of the architectural topography ofManhattan Island, and yet the log of the _Black Prince_ makes it nomore than twenty days. Not that our day-to-day time has been dragging, for it has done nothing of the sort. 

All my life long I have dreamed of indulging in the joy of a reallylong voyage, and now at last I've got it. New York to Cape Town, SouthAfrica, 6, 900 miles, thirty days' straight-away run, and thence anothertwenty-four days' sail to Mombasa, on a 7, 000-ton cargo boat, deliberate and stately rather than fast of pace, but otherwise as trim, well groomed, and well found as a liner, with an official mess thatnumbers as fine a set of fellows as ever trod a bridge. The Captain, when not busy hunting up a stray planet to check his latitude, puts inhis spare time hunting kindly things to do for his two passengers--forthere are only two of us, the Doctor and myself. The Doctor signed onthe ship's articles as surgeon, I as purser. 

Fancy it! Thirty days' clear respite from the daily papers, thetelephone, the subway crowds, and the constant wear and tear on one'smuscular system reaching for change, large and small! Thirty days freeof the daily struggle either for place on the ladder of ambition or forthe privilege to stay on earth and stand about and watch the othersmount, that saps metropolitan nerves and squeezes the humanities out ofmetropolitan life until its hearts are arid and barren and cruel asthose of the cavemen! Thirty days' repose, practically alone amid oneof nature's greatest solitudes, awed by her silences, uplifted by themajesty of her mighty forces, with naught to do but humble oneselfbefore the consciousness of his own littleness and unfitness, and studyhow to right the wrongs he has done. 

Indeed a voyage like this makes it certain one will come actually toknow one's own self so intimately that, unless well convinced that hewill esteem and enjoy the acquaintance, he had best stay at home. Ofmy personal experience in this particular I beg to be excused fromwriting. 

Lonesome out here? Far from it. Behind, to be sure, are those so nearand dear, one would gladly give all the remaining years allotted himfor one blessed half-hour with them. Otherwise, time literally fliesaboard the _Black Prince_; the days slip by at puzzling speed. Roughlyspeaking, I should say the meals consume about half one's waking hours, for we are fed five times a day, and fed so well one cannot get his ownconsent to dodge any of them. 

Indeed I've only one complaint to make of this ship; she is a"water-wagon" in a double sense, which makes it awkward for a man whonever could drink comfortably alone. With every man of the mess ateetotaler, one is now and then possessed with a consuming desire forcommunion with some dear soul of thirsty memory who can be trusted totake his "straight. " Of course I don't mean to imply that this messcannot be trusted, for you can rely on it implicitly every time--totake tea; you can trust it with any mortal or material thing, exceptyour pet brew of tea, if you have one, which, luckily, I haven't. Indeed, for the thirsty man Nature herself in these latitudes isdiscouraging, for the Big Dipper stays persistently upside down, dry!--perhaps out of sympathy with the teetotal principles of thisship. And most of the way down here there has been such a high searunning that the only dry places I have noticed have been the upperbridge and my throat. The fact is, about everything aboard this shipis distressingly suggestive to a faithful knight of the tankard: he issurrounded with "ports" that won't flow and giant "funnels" that mighteasily carry spirits enough to wet the whistles of an army division(but don't), until he is tempted in sheer desperation to take a pull atthe "main brace. "

All of which, assisted by the advent of a covey of flying fishes and a(Sunday) "school" of porpoises, is responsible for the following, whichis adventured with profuse apologies to Mr. Kipling:

 ON THE ROAD TO MOMBASA

 Take me north of the Equator Where'er gleams the polar star, Where "The Dipper" ne'er is empty And Orion is not far, Where the eagle at them gazes And up toward them thrusts the pine-- _Anywhere_ strong men drink spirits On the right side of "the line. "

 On the road to Mombas-a, Drawing nearer toward Cathay, Where the north star now is under, 'Neath the Southern Cross's ray. 

 Take me off this water wagon Where the Captain's ribbon's blue, Where the Doctor, yclept Barthwaite, And each man-jack of the crew Never get a drop of poteen, Never know the cheer of beer-- _Anywhere_ a thirsty man may Wet his whistle without fear. 

 On the road to Mombas-a, With the _Black Prince_, day by day Rolling her tall taffrail under, 'Neath a sky o'ercast and gray. 

 Take me back to good old Proctor's Where a man may quench his thirst, Where a purser with a shilling Needn't feel he is accursed By an ironclad owners' ship rule That her officers shouldn't drink-- _Anywhere_ the ringing glasses Merrily clink! clink!

 On the road to Mombas-a, Where the only drink is "tay, " Where a thirst that is a wonder Burns the throat from day to day. 

 Take me somewhere close to Rector's Where a man can get a crab, Where the blondined waves are tossing And every eye-glance is a stab, Where there's _froufrou_ of the _jupon_ And there's popping of the cork _Anywhere_ the men and women Snap their fingers at the stork. 

 On the road to Mombas-a, Where e'en mermaids never play, Where to come would be a blunder Hunting hot birds and Roger. 

But lonesome out here? Never--with the sympathetic North Atlanticwinds ever ready to roar you a grim dirge in your moments of melancholycontemplation of the inverted Dipper, with the gentle tropical breezessoftly singing through the rigging notes of soothing cadence, with thelethal ocean billows ever leaping up the sides of the ship, foamingwith the joy of what they would do to you if they once got you in theirembrace!

Lonesome? With the coming and the going of each day's sun gildingcloud-crests, silvering waves, setting you matchless scenes in coloreffect, some ravishing in their gorgeous splendor, some soft and tenderof tone as the light in the eyes of the woman you worship, scenesbeside which the most brilliant stage settings which metropolitansflock like sheep to see are pathetically paltry counterfeits. 

Lonesome? With a mighty, joyously bounding charger like the _BlackPrince_ beneath your feet if not between your knees, gayly taking thetallest billows in his stride, whose ever steady pulse-beat bespeaks asoundness of wind and limb you can trust to land you well at the finish!

Lonesome? Where privileged to descend into the very vitals of yourcharger and sit throughout the midnight watch, an awed listener to thethrobs of the mighty heart that vitalizes his every function, whileeach vigorously thrusting piston, each smug, palm-rubbing eccentric, each somnolently nodding lever, drives deeper into your lay brain anoverwhelming sense of pride in such of your kind as have had the geniusto conceive, and such others as have had the skill and patience toperfect, the conversion of inert masses of crude metal into themagnificently powerful and obviously sentient entity that is bearingyou!

Lonesome? Skirting the coastline of Africa, a country whosepotentates, from the Ptolemies to Tom Ryan, have never failed to makeworld history worth thinking about!

Lonesome? Bearing up toward that sea-made manacle of fallen majesty, St. Helena, absorbed in memories of Bonaparte's magnificent dreams ofworld-wide dominion, and of his pathetic end on one of its smallest andmost isolated patches!

Lonesome? With a chum at your elbow so close a student of the manlygame of war that he can glibly reel off for you every importantmanoeuvre of all the great battles of history, from those of Alexanderthe Great down to Tommy Burns's latest!

And now and then the elements themselves sit in and take a hand in ourgame, sometimes a hand we could very well do without--as twice lately. 

The first instance happened early last week. Tuesday tropical weatherhit us and drove us into pajamas--a cloudless sky, blazing sun, highhumidity, while we ploughed our way across long, slow-rolling, unrippled swells that looked so much like a vast, gently heaving sea ofpetroleum that, had John D. Standardoil been with us he would havesuffered a probably fatal attack of heart disease if prevented fromstopping right there and planning a pipe line. 

Throughout the day close about the ship clouds of flying fish skimmedthe sea, and great schools of porpoises leaped from it and raced us, asif, even to them, their native element had become hateful, or as ifthey sensed something ominous and fearsome abroad from which theysought shelter in our company. One slender little opal-hueddiaphanous-winged bird-fish came aboard, and before he was picked uphad the happy life grilled out of him on our scorching iron deck, hotalmost as boiler plates. Poor little chap! he found with us anythingbut sanctuary; but perhaps he lived long enough to signal the fact tohis mates, for no others boarded us. And yet for one other opal-huedwinged wanderer we have been sanctuary; for when we were about onehundred and fifty miles out of New York a highly bred carrier pigeon, bearing on his leg a metal tag marked "32, " hovered about us for atime, finally alighted on our rail, and then fluttered to the deck whenoffered a pan of water--and drank and drank until it seemed best tostop him. By kindness and ingenuity of Chief Engineer Tucker he nowoccupies a tin house with a wonderful mansard roof, from which heissues every afternoon for an aerial constitutional, giving us a frightoccasionally with a flight over far a-sea, but always returning safelyenough to his new diggings. 

That Tuesday morning the sun rose fiery red out of the steaming Guineajungles to the east of us, across its lower half two narrow black barssinister. It looked as if it had blood in its eye, while the still, heavy, brooding air felt to be ominous of evil, harboring devilment ofsome sort. All the mess were cross-grained, silent, or irritable, raw-edged for the first time, for a better lot of fellows one could notask to ship with. Nor throughout the day did weather conditions ortempers improve. All day long the sky was heavily overcast with dense, low-hanging, dark gray clouds, which, while wholly obscuring the sun, seemed to focus its rays upon us like a vast burning-glass; whereforeit was expedient for the two pajama-clad passengers to keep well withinthe shelter of the bridge-deck awning. Toward sunset, a dense blackwall of cloud settled upon the western horizon, aft of us. Butsuddenly, just at the moment the sun must have been descending belowthe horizon to the south of it, the black wall of cloud slowly parted, and the opening so made widened until it became an enormous oval, reaching from horizon half-way to zenith, framing a scene of astoundingbeauty and grandeur. Range after range of cloud crests that lookedlike mountain folds rose one above another, with the appearance of vastintervening space between, some of the ranges a most delicate blue orpink, some opalescent, some gloriously gilded, while behind thefarthest and tallest range, at what seemed an inconceivably remotedistance, but in a perspective entirely harmonious with the foreground, appeared the sky itself, a soft luminous straw-yellow in color, fleckedthickly over with tiny snow-white cloudlets. It was like a glimpseinto another and more beautiful world than ours--the actual celestialworld. 

But, whether or not ominous of our future, we were permitted no morethan a brief glimpse of it, for presently the pall of black cloud felllike a vast drop curtain and shut it from our sight. Then night camedown upon us, black, starless, forbidding, although in the absence ofany fall of the barometer nothing more than a downpour of rain wasexpected. 

But shortly after I had gone to sleep, at two o'clock suddenlysomething in the nature of a tropical tornado flew up and struck ushard. I was awakened by a tremendous crash on the bridge-deck above mycabin, a heeling over of the ship that nearly dumped me out of myberth, and what seemed like a solid spout of water pouring in throughmy open weather porthole, with the wind howling a devil's death-songthrough the rigging and an uninterrupted smash--bang! above my head. 

Throwing on a rain coat over my pajamas, I went outside and up theladder leading to the bridge-deck; and as head and shoulders rose abovethe deck level, a wall of hot, wind-borne rain struck me--rain so hotit felt almost scalding--that almost swept me off the ladder. If ithad I should probably have become food for the fishes. I got to theupper deck just in time to see Captain Thomas get a crack on the headfrom a fragment of flying spar of the wreckage from the upperbridge--luckily a glancing blow that did no more damage than leave himgroggy for a moment. 

For the next fifteen minutes I was busy hugging a bridge stanchion, dodging flying wreckage and trying to breathe; for, driven by theviolence of the wind, the rain came horizontally in such suffocatinglyhot dense masses as nearly to stifle one. 

It was the watch of Second Mate Isitt. Afterwards he told me that afew minutes before the storm broke he saw a particularly dense blackcloud coming up upon us out of the southeast, where it had apparentlybeen lying in ambush for us behind the northernmost headland of theGulf of Guinea, an ambush so successful that even the barometer failedto detect it, for when Mate Isitt ran to the chart-room he found thatthe instrument showed no fall. But scarcely was he back on the bridgebefore the approaching cloud flashed into a solid mass of sheetlightning that covered the ship like a fiery canopy; and instantlythereafter, a wall of wind and rain hit the ship, heeled her over tothe rail, swung her head at right angles to her course, ripped theheavy canvas awning of the upper bridge to tatters, bent and tore loosefrom their sockets the thick iron stanchions supporting it, madekindling wood of its heavy spars, and strewed the bridge and forwarddeck with a pounding tangle of wreckage. How the mate and helmsman, who were directly beneath it, escaped injury, is a mystery. In twentyminutes the riot of wind and water had swept past us out to sea insearch of easier game, leaving behind it a dead calm above butmountainous seas beneath, that played ball with us the rest of thenight. Heaven help any wind-jammer it may have struck, for if caughtas completely unwarned as were we, with all sails set, she and all hercrew are likely to be still slowly settling through the dense darksomedepths of the twenty-five hundred fathoms the chart showed thereabouts, and weeping wives and anxious underwriters will long be scanning thenews columns that report all sea goings and comings--except arrivals inthe port of sunken ships. 

The second fall the elements have essayed to take out of us remains yetundecided. The fact is, I am now writing over a young volcano we areall hoping will not grow much older. 

Two nights ago I was awakened half suffocated, to find my cabin full ofstrong sulphurous fumes; but fancying them brought in through my openportholes from the smoke-stack by a shift aft of the wind, I paid nofurther attention to them. But when the next morning I as usual turnedout on deck to see the sun rise, a commotion aft of me attracted myattention, Looking, I saw the first mate, chief engineer, and a partyof sailors, all so begrimed with sweat and coal dust one could scarcelypick officers from seamen, rapidly ripping off the cover of one of themidship hatches, while others were flying about connecting up the deckfire hose. This didn't look a bit good to me, and when, an instantlater, off came the hatch and out poured thick volumes of smoke, Ifailed to observe that it looked any better. 

When the hatch was removed, the men thrust the hose through it, andbegan deluging the burning bunker with water; for, luckily, it is onlya bunker fire, --in a lower and comparatively small bunker. 

The fire had been discovered early the day previous, and for nearlytwenty-four hours officers and seamen had been fighting it from below, without any mention to their two passengers of its existence, fightingby tireless shovelling to reach his seat. And now they were on deck, attacking it from above, only because the heat and fumes below hadbecome so overpowering they could no longer work there. But after anhour's ventilation through the hatch and a continuous downpour ofwater, the first mate again led his men below. 

And so, the usual watches being divided into two-hour relays, the fighthas gone on wearily but persistently, until now, the evening of thefourth day, the men are wan and haggard from the killing heat and foulair. In the engine-room in these latitudes the thermometer ranges fromrarely under 108 degrees up to 130, and one has to stay down there onlyan hour, as I often have, until he is streaming with sweat as if hewere in the unholiest heat of a Turkish bath. And as the burningbunker immediately adjoins the other end of the boiler room, to theheat of its own smouldering mass is added that of the fire boxes, untilthe temperature is probably close to 140 degrees. 

While the fire is confined to the bunker where it started, we are in noparticular danger; but if it reaches the bunker immediately above, itwill have a free run to the after hold, where several thousand packagesof case oil are stored. In the open waist above the oil are a score ormore big tanks of gasoline, and, on the poop immediately aft of that, aquantity of dynamite and several thousand detonating caps. Thus if thefire ever gets aft, things are apt to happen a trifle quicker than theycan be dodged. 

To denizens of _terra firma_, the mere thought of being aboard a shipon fire in mid-sea--we are now five hundred miles from the littleBritish island of Ascension and one thousand and eighty off the Congo(mainland) Coast--is nothing short of appalling. But here with us, inactual experience, it is taken by the officers of the ship as such asimple matter of course, in so far as they show or will admit, that weare even denied the privilege of a mild thrill of excitement. 

In the meantime there is nothing for the Doctor and myself to do butsit about and guess whether it is to be a boost from the explosives, asimple grill, a descent to Davy Jones, an adventure while athirst andhungering in an open boat on the tossing South Atlantic, a successfulrun of the ship to the nearest land--or victory over the fire. Iwonder which it will be!

If the worst comes to the worst, I intend to do for these pages what noone these last three weeks has done for me--commit them to a bottle, ifI can find one aboard this ship, which is by no means certain. Indeedit is so uncertain I think I had best start hunting one right now. 

After nearly a twenty-four hours' search I've got it--a craft to bearthese sheets, wide of hatch, generously broad and deep of hull, butdestitute of aught of the stimulating aroma I had hoped might cheerthem on their voyage--more than I have been cheered on mine. For thebest I am able to procure for them is--a jam bottle!

While the Doctor and I are not novices at golf, this is one "bunker" weare making so little headway getting out of, that both now seem likelyto quit "down" to it. 

I wonder when the little derelict, tiny and inconspicuous as aPortuguese man-of-war, may be picked up; I wonder when the sheets itbears may reach my publisher to whom it is consigned. Perhaps not foryears--a score, two score; perhaps not until he himself, whom a fewweeks ago I left in the lusty vigor of early manhood, is gathered tohis fathers; perhaps not, therefore, until the writer has no publisherleft and is himself no longer remembered. 

The burning bunker is now a glowing furnace, the men worked down tomere shadows. Plainly the fire is getting the best of them and, whatis even more discouraging, there is little more fight left in them. 

First Mate Watson, who, almost without rest, has led the fight belowsince it started, says that another half-hour will--

CHAPTER XIV

THEY WHO MUST BE OBEYED

Few mightier monarchs than Menelek II of Abyssinia ever swayed thedestinies of a people. Throughout the vast territory of the Abyssinianhighlands his individual will is law to some millions of subjects; lawalso to hordes of savage Mohammedan and pagan tribesmen without theconfines of his kingdom. His court includes no councillors. Alonethroughout the long years of his reign Menelek has dealt with alldomestic and foreign affairs of state. 

But now this last splendid survival of the feudal absolutism exercisedand enjoyed by mediaeval rulers is about to disappear beneathencroaching waves of civilization, that do not long spare thepicturesque. Cables from far-off Adis Ababa, Menelek's capital, bringnews that he has formed a cabinet and published the appointment ofMinisters of War, Finance, Justice, Foreign Affairs, and Commerce. Andthis change has come, not from the pressure of any party or factionwithin his kingdom, for such do not exist, but out of the fount of hisown wisdom. So sound is this wisdom as to prove him a most worthydescendant of the sage Hebrew King whom Menelek claims as ancestor--if, indeed, more proofs were necessary than the statesmanlike way in whichhe has dealt with jealous diplomats, and the martial skill with which, at Adowa in 1896, he defeated the flower of the Italian army and wonfrom Italy an honorable truce. 

No existing royal house owns lineage so ancient as that claimed byMenelek II, Negus Negusti, "King of the Kings of Ethiopia, andConquering Lion of Judah. "

Old Abyssinian tradition has it that in the tenth century, B. C. , earlyin her reign, Makeda, Queen of Sheba, paid a ceremonial visit to theCourt of King Solomon, coming with her entire court and a magnificentretinue bearing royal gifts of frankincense and balm, gold and ivoryand precious stones. Her gorgeous caravan was bright with themany-colored plumes and silks of litters, blazing with the goldenornaments of elephant and camel caparisons, glittering with the glintof spears and bucklers. 

That the two greatest souls of their time, so met, should fuse andblend is little to be wondered at. She of Sheba bore Solomon a son andcalled him Menelek, so the legend runs. Later the boy was twitted byplaymates for that he had no father. In this annoyance the Queen sentan embassy to Solomon asking some act that should establish their son'sroyal paternity. Promptly Solomon returned the embassy bearing toSheba's court in far southwest Arabia a royal decree declaring Menelekhis son, and accompanied it by a son of each of the leaders of thetwelve tribes of Israel, enjoined to serve as a sort of juvenile royalcourt to Menelek. 

Whether or not the claim of Menelek II be true, that he himself islineally descended from the son of Solomon and Sheba's Queen, certainit is that in race type Abyssinians are plainly come of sons of Israel, crossed and modified with Coptic, Hamite, and Ethiopian blood. To thisday they cling closely as the most orthodox Hebrew, to some of thedearest Israelitish tenets, notably abstention from pork and from meatnot killed by bleeding, observance of the Sabbath, and the rite ofcircumcision. Notwithstanding this the Abyssinians have beenChristians since the fourth century of this era, when, only eight yearsafter the great Constantine decreed the recognition of Christianity bythe State, a proselytising monk came among them with a faith so strong, a heart so pure, and an eloquence so irresistible, that, singlehanded, he accomplished the conversion of the Abyssinian race. 

Throughout the centuries the Abyssinians have held fast to their faithas first it was taught them. The great wave of Mohammedanism thatswept up the Nile and across the Indian Ocean broke and parted themoment it struck the Abyssinian plateau. It completely surrounded, butnever could mount the tableland. 

Thus cut off for centuries from all other Christian Churches, theAbyssinian religion remains to-day but little changed. Could Paul orJohn return to earth, of all the Christian sects throughout the world, the forms and tenets of the Abyssinian Church would be the only onesthey would find nearly all their own; for the ritual is older than thatof either Rome or Moscow. 

And remembering the Abyssinian folklore tale of the twelve sons of thechiefs of the twelve tribes of Israel sent by Solomon to Makeda asattendants on Menelek I, it is most curious and interesting to knowthat the heads of certain twelve Abyssinian families (none of whom arelonger notables, some even the rudest ignorant herdsmen), and theirforebears from time immemorial, have had and still possess inalienableright of audience with their monarch at any time they may ask it, eventaking precedence over royalty itself. Indeed Mr. George Clerk, forthe last five years assistant to Sir John Harrington, British Ministerto the Court of Menelek, recently told me that he and other diplomatsaccredited to Adis Ababa, were not infrequently subjected to theannoyance of having an audience interrupted or delayed by theunannounced coming for a hearing of one of these favored twelve. 

Many of Menelek's judgments are masterpieces. Recently two brotherscame before him, the younger with the plaint that the elder sought thelarger and better part of certain property they had to divide. Promptly Menelek ordered the elder to describe fully the entireproperty and state what part he wanted for himself. It was done. 

"And this, " questioned Menelek, "you consider a just division of theproperty into two parts of equal value?"

"Yes, Negus, " answered the elder. 

"Then, " decreed Menelek, "give your brother first choice!"

Over wide territory beyond the Abyssinian border, Menelek's power is asmuch feared and his will as much respected as among his own subjects. Of this there occurred recently a most dramatic proof. 

Bordering Abyssinia on the east is the Danakil country. It adjoins theProvince of Shoa, of which Menelek was Ras, or feudal King, before hisaccession to the Abyssinian throne. The Danakils are a savage paganpeople of mixed Hamite (early Egyptian) and Ethiopian ancestry. Theyare perhaps the most tirelessly warlike race in all Africa. Oftenseverely beaten by their Italian and Somali neighbors, they have neverbeen subdued. Indeed slaughter may, in a way, be said to be a part oftheir religion, for it is the fetich every young warrior must providefor the worship of the woman of his choice before he may hope to winand have her. It is necessary that he should have killed royalgame--lion, rhinoceros, or elephant--but not enough. Singlehanded hemust kill a man and bring the maid a trophy of the slaughter before shewill even consider him, and Danakil maids of spirit often demand someplurality of trophies. Thus the license for each Danakil mating iswritten in the life blood of some neighboring tribesman; thus are thefew poltroons in Danakil-land condemned to stay celibate. 

Only Menelek's word do they heed; his might they dread. 

Through the Danakil country, between Errer Gotto and Oder, not long agotravelled the caravan of William Northrup McMillan, conveying thesections of several steel boats with which he purposed navigating andexploring the Blue Nile from its source to Khartoom, a region that hadnever been traversed by white men. In the party was M. Dubois-Desaulle, a gay and reckless ex-officer of the French ForeignLegion who had long served in Algiers against raiding Arab sheiks. Heharbored no fear of the unorganized wild tribesmen through whosecountry they were travelling. McMillan knew them better, however; heheld his command under strict military discipline, marched in closeorder with scouts out, forbade straying from the column, and_zareba_-ed his night camps. For the march was a severe one and he hadneither the time nor sufficient force to search for or to succormissing stragglers. 

Urged with the rest never to go unarmed and to stay close with thecaravan, Dubois-Desaulle's only reply was a laughing, "_Jamais!Jamais. Je ne porte pas des armes pour ces babouins! Je les ferais'enfuir avec des batons! N'inquiètez pas de moi. _"

Interested in botany and entomology, holding the natives in uttercontempt, repeatedly he strayed from the column for hours without evenso much as a pistol by way of arms, until finally McMillan told himthat if he again so strayed he would be placed under guard for thebalance of march. But the very next day, riding a mule with theadvance guard led by H. Morgan Brown, Dubois-Desaulle slippedunobserved into the bush, probably in pursuit of some winged wonderthat had crossed his path. 

Camp was made early in the afternoon on the banks of the Doha River, and a strong party, with shikari trackers, led by Brown, was sent outin search of the straggler. Night came on before they could pick uphis trail, and nothing further could be done except to build signalfires on adjacent hills; but all without result. Anxiety for hissafety crystallized into chill fear for his life, when the dull glow ofthe signal fires was suddenly extinguished by the next morning's sun;for the desert knows neither twilight nor dawn--the sun bursts upblood-red out of shrouding darkness like a rocket from its case, and atonce it is day. 

An hour later Brown's shikaris found the place where Dubois-Desaullehad strayed from the column, followed his trail through the bush hitherand thither for two miles, to a point where he had found a nativewarrior seated beneath a tree. They read, with their unerring skill at"sign" lore, that there he had stood and talked for some time with thenative, and then pressed on, rider and footman travelling side by side, till, within the shelter of especially dense surrounding bush, thefootman had dropped behind the rider--for what dastardly assassin'spurpose the next twenty steps revealed. There stark lay the body ofgay Dubois-Desaulle, dropped from his mule without a struggle by amortal spear-thrust in his back, the manner of his mutilation aDanakil's sign manual!

Immediately messengers were sent to the caravan bearing the news andasking reinforcements. At this time the indomitable chief, McMillan, was laid up with veldt sores on the legs, unable to walk or even toride except in a litter. Promptly, however, he despatched LieutenantFairfax and William Marlow, with about thirty more men, to Brown'ssupport, with orders never to quit till he got the murderer. By aforced march, Fairfax reached Brown at four in the afternoon. 

When journeying in desert places and amid deadly perils, it is alwaysan unusually terrible shock to lose one from among so few, and to beforced to lay him in unconsecrated ground remote from home and friends. So it was a sobbing, saddened trio that stood by while a grave was dugto receive all that was mortal of their gallant comrade. And within itthey laid him, wrapped in the ample folds of an Abyssinian _tope_;stones were heaped above the grave--at least the four-footed beastsshould not have a chance to rend him!--and three volleys were fired asa last honor to Dubois-Desaulle, ex-legionary of the Army of Algiers. 

Tears dried, eyes hardened, jaws tightened, and away on the plain trailof the murderer marched the little column. Turning at the edge of thethick jungle for a last look back, the three noted an extraordinarycircumstance that touched them deeply and made them feel that even thesavage desert sympathized. A miniature whirlwind of the sort frequentin the desert was slowly circling the grave; and even as they looked itswung immediately over it and there stood for some moments, its talldust column rising up into the zenith like the smoke of a funeral pyre!Then on they marched and there they left him, sure that by night lionswould be roaring him a requiem not unfitting his wild spirit. 

Just at dusk the party reached a large Danakil town into which themurderer's trail led, and camped before it. 

Told that one of his men had killed their comrade and that they wantedhim, Ali Gorah, the chief, was surly and insolent. He refused to givehim up, said that he wished no war with them, but that if they wantedany of his people they must fight for them. Then guards were set aboutthe camp and the little command lay down to sleep within a spear'sthrow of thousands of Ali Gorah's wild Danakils. The night passedwithout alarms, and then conference was resumed. Fairfax cajoled andthreatened, threatened summoning an army that would wipe Danakil's landoff the map; but all to no purpose. The chief remained obdurate. 

Early in the day a courier was sent to McMillan with the story of theirplight and a request for supplies and more men. These were instantlysent, leaving McMillan himself well nigh helpless, fuming at his ownenforced inaction, alone with the Marlow, his personal attendant, ahandful of men, and a total of only two rifles, as the sole guard ofthe caravan for ten more anxious days. 

Daily councils were held, always ending in mutual threats. Fairfaxcould make no progress, but he would not leave. 

One day Ali Gorah lined up two thousand warriors in battle array beforeFairfax's small command and ordered him to move off, under pain ofinstant attack. But there Fairfax stubbornly stayed, in the very faceof the certainty that his command could not last ten minutes if thechief should actually order a charge. His dauntless courage won, andthe war party was withdrawn. 

In the meantime some of his Somalis had learned from the Danakils thatthe murderer's name was Mirach, and that he was the greatest warrior ofthe tribe, a man with trophies of all sorts of royal game and of noless than forty men to his matrimonial credit. By the eleventh daymutual irritation had nigh reached the fusing point. Fairfax hadcarefully trained a gun crew to handle a Colt machine-gun that McMillanwas bringing as a present to Ras Makonnen, the victor of the field ofAdowa, and debated with his mates the question of risking an attack. 

Luckily, however, the previous day McMillan had bethought him of aletter of Menelek's he carried, a letter ordering all his subjects tolend the bearer any aid or succor he might need. This letter he sentby his Abyssinian headman to Mantoock, the nearest Abyssinian Ras and asort of overlord of the Danakils, with request for his advice and aid. Promptly came Mantoock, with only one attendant, heard the story, begged McMillan to have no further care, and raced away for Ali Gorah'svillage, where happily he arrived in mid afternoon of the eleventh day, just as Fairfax was making dispositions for opening a finish fight. 

Mantoock's first act was to advise Fairfax to withdraw his command andrejoin the caravan; and, assured that Mirach would be brought away aprisoner, Fairfax assented and withdrew. Then Mantoock entered alonethe village of Ali Gorah and there spent the night. What passed thatnight between the Christian and the pagan chiefs we do not know. Probably little was said; nothing more was needed, indeed, than theinterpretation of the letter of the Negus and the exhibition of theroyal seal it bore. Full well Ali Gorah knew the heavy penalty ofdisobedience. 

So it happened that near noon of the twelfth day Mantoock broughtMirach into McMillan's camp, accompanied by thirty of his family andthe headmen of the tribe, Mirach marching in fully armed with spearsand shield, insolent and fearless. 

Asked why he had done the deed, Mirach replied:

"I was resting in the shade. The Feringee approached and asked me toguide him to the river. I told him to pass on and not to disturb me. Then he stayed and talked and talked till I got tired and told him notto tempt me further; for I had never yet had such a chance to kill awhite man. Still he annoyed me with his foolish talk until, weary ofit, I led him away into the thickets to his death and won trophies dearto Danakil's maidens. "

Three camels, worth twenty dollars each, or a total of sixty dollars, is usual blood-money in Abyssinia. When that is paid and received, feuds among the tribesmen end, and murders are soon forgotten. ButMirach was so highly valued as a warrior by his people that theyoffered McMillan no less than three hundred camels for his life. Theywere dumbfounded when their offer was refused. 

Disarmed and shackled, Mirach remained a sullen but defiant prisonerwith the caravan for the next two weeks' march, when the crossing ofthe Hawash River brought them well into Abyssinian territory and madeit safe to rush him forward, in the charge of a small escort, to AdisAbaba. 

There he was tried beneath the sombre shade of the famous JudgmentTree, condemned, and two months later hanged in the market place: andthere for days his grinning face and shrivelling carcass swung, amenacing proof to the wildest visiting tribesmen of them all of thevast power of the Negus Negusti. 

CHAPTER XV

DJAMA AOUT'S HEROISM

"Throughout Somaliland, among a race famous for their fearlessness, thename of Djama Aout is held a synonym for reckless courage. He did thebravest deed I ever saw, a deed heroic in its purpose, ferociously sagein its execution; the deed of a man bred of a race that knew nolonger-range weapon than an assegai, trained from youth to fight andkill at arm's length or in hand grapple; a deed that, incidentally, saved my life. "

The speaker was C. W. L. Bulpett, himself well qualified by personalexperience to sit in judgment, as Court of Last Resort, on any act ofcourage; a man who, at forty, without training and on a heavy wagerthat he could not walk a mile, run a mile, and ride a mile, all insixteen and a half minutes, finished the three miles in sixteen minutesand seven seconds; a man who, midway of a dinner at Greenwich, bet thathe could swim the half-mile across the Thames and back in his eveningclothes before the coffee was served, and did it; and who has crossedAfrica from Khartoom to the Red Sea. 

If more were needed to prove Mr. Bulpett's past-mastership inhardihood, it is perhaps sufficient to mention that he voluntarily gothimself in the fix that needed Djama Aout's aid, although in tellingthe story he did not convey the impression that his own part in it wasmore than secondary and inconsequential. 

"We were big-game hunting, lion and rhino preferred, along the borderof Somaliland, " he continued. "Besides the pony and camel men, we hadfour Somali _shikaris_, trained trackers, who knew the habits of beastsand read their tracks and signs like a book; men of a breed whose womenwill not give themselves as wives except to men who have scored killsof both royal game and men. 

"_Sahib_ McMillan's personal _shikari_ was DJama Aout; mine, AbdiDereh. At the time of this incident the _Sahib_ had several lions tohis credit, while I yet had none. So the _Sahib_ kindly declared that, however and by whomsoever jumped, the try at the next lion should bemine. The section we were in was the usual 'lion country' of EastAfrica, wide stretches of dry, level plain with occasional low rollinghills, thinly timbered everywhere with the thorny mimosa, most of itlow bush, some grown to small trees twenty or thirty feet in height. 

"To cover a wider range of shooting, we one day decided to divide thecamp, and I moved off about four miles and pitched my tent on a lowhill, which left the old camp in clear view across the plain. Earlythe next morning I went out after eland and had an excellent morning'ssport. Returned to camp shortly after noon, tired and dusty, I took abath, got into pajamas and slippers, had my luncheon, and was sittingcomfortably smoking within my tent, when one of my men hurried in tosay a messenger was coming on a pony at top speed. Presently hearrived, with word from the _Sahib_ that he had a big male lion at bayin a thicket bordering the river and urging me to hurry to him. 

"This my first chance at lion, I seized my rifle, mounted a pony, without stopping to dress, and, followed by Abdi Dereh and another_shikari_, dashed away behind the messenger at my pony's best pace. Arrived, I found the _Sahib_ and about a dozen men, _shikaris_ and ponymen, surrounding a dense mimosa thicket no more than thirty or fortyyards in diameter. Nigh two-thirds of its circumference was bounded bya bend of a deep stream the lion was not likely to try to cross, whichleft a comparatively narrow front to guard against a charge. 

"'Here you are, Don Carlos!' called the _Sahib_, as I jumped off mypony. 'Here's your lion in the bush. Up to you to get him out. DjamaAout and the rest will stay to help you while I go back and move thecaravan to a new camp-site. No suggestion to make, except I scarcelythink I'd go in the bush after him; too thick to see ten feet ahead ofyou, ' and away he rode toward his camp. 

"The situation was simple, even to a novice at the game oflion-shooting. With my line of shouting men forced to range themselvesacross the narrow land front of the thicket and no chance of his exiton the river front, only two lines of strategy remained: it was eitherfire the bush and drive him out upon us or enter the bush on hands andknees and creep about till I sighted him. The latter was well-nighsuicidal, for it was absolutely sure he would scent, hear, and locateme before I could see him, and thus would be almost complete master ofthe situation. Naturally, therefore, I first had the bush fired, asnear to windward as the bend of the river permitted, and took a standcovering his probable line of exit from the thicket. But it was afailure--not enough dead wood to carry the fire through the bush and itsoon flickered and died out. Thus nothing remained but the lastalternative, and I took it. 

"Dropping on hands and knees, I began to creep into the thicket. Soonmy hands were bleeding from the dry mimosa thorns littering the ground, my back from the thorny boughs arching low above me. For some distanceI could see no more than the length of my rifle before me or to rightor left. Presently, when near the centre of the brush patch, AbdiDereh next behind me, a second _shikari_ behind him, and Djama Aoutbringing up the rear, I caught a glimpse of the lion's hind quartersand tail, scarcely six feet ahead of me. 

"I fired at once, most imprudently, for the exposure could not possiblyafford a fatal shot. Instantly after the shot, the lion circled thedense clump immediately in front of me and charged me through a narrowopening. As he came, I gave him my second barrel from the hip--no timeto aim--and in trying to spring aside out of his path, slipped in myloose slippers and fell flat on my back. 

"Later we learned that my first shot had torn through his loins and mysecond had struck between neck and shoulder and ranged the entirelength of his body. But even the terrible shock of two great . 450cordite-driven balls did not serve to stop him, and the very moment Ihit the ground he lit diagonally across my body, his belly pressingmine, his hot breath burning my cheek, his fierce eyes glaring intomine. 

"Though it seemed an age, the rest was a matter of seconds. AbdiDereh, my rifle-bearer, was in the act of shoving the gun muzzleagainst the lion's ribs for a shot through the heart, when a shot fromwithout the bush--we never learned by whom fired, probably by one ofthe pony men--broke his arm and knocked him flat. Then the second_shikari_ sprang forward and bent to pick up the gun, when one strokeof the lion's great fore paw tore away most of the flesh from one sideof his head and face, and laid him senseless. 

"Freed for an instant from the attacks of my men, the lion turned tothe prey held helpless beneath him, and with a fierce roar, was in thevery act of advancing his cavernous mouth and gleaming fangs to seizeme by the head, when in jumped Djama Aout to my succor. His onlyweapon was the _Sahib's_ . 38 Smith & Wesson self-cocking six-shooter. His was the quickest piece of sound thinking, shrewd acting, anddesperate valor conceivable. I was staring death in the face--he knewit at a glance. Just within those enormous jaws, and all would be overwith me. The light charge of the pistol, however placed, would belittle more than a flea-bite on a monster already ripped laterally andlongitudinally through and through by two great . 450 cordite shells. Indeed the lion was not even gasping from his wounds; his great heartwas beating strong and steady against mine. Of what avail a littlepistol-ball, or six of them?

"All this must have raced through Djama Aout's brain in a second, inthe very second _Shikari_ Number Two was falling under the lion's blow. In another second he conceived a plan, absolutely the only one thatpossibly could have saved me. 

"Just at the instant the lion turned and opened his jaws to seize andcrush my head, forward sprang Djama Aout; within the lion's jaws andinto his great yawning mouth Djama Aout thrust pistol, hand, andforearm, and, though the hard-driven teeth crunched cruelly throughsinews and into bone, steadily pulled the trigger till the pistol's sixloads were discharged down the lion's very throat!

"Shrinking from the shock of the shots, the lion released Djama Aout'smangled arm and freed me of his weight. Unhurt, even unscratched bythe lion, I quickly swung myself up into the biggest mimosa near, apoor four feet from the ground, within easy reach of our enemy if hehad not been too sick of his wounds to leap at me. 

"Having fallen from the pain and shock of his wounded arm, Djama Aoutrose, backed off a little distance, and stood at bay, the pistolclubbed in his left hand. 

"While apparently sick unto death, the lion might muster strength for alast attack, so I called to Marlow, who, under orders, had waitedwithout the thicket, bearing an elephant gun. Ignorant of whether ornot the lion was even wounded, in the brave boy came, crept in rangeand fired a great eight-bore ball fair through the lion's heart. 

"It was only a few hours until, working with knife and tweezers, the_Sahib_ had all the mimosa thorns dug out of my back and legs, but itwas many months before Djama Aout recovered partial use of his goodright arm, and it may very well be generations before the story of hisheroic deed ceases to be sung in Somali villages. "

CHAPTER XVI

A MODERN COEUR-DE-LION

To seek to come to death grips with the King of Beasts, a man musthimself be nothing short of lion-hearted. Such men there are, a few, men with an inborn lust of battle, a love of staking their own livesagainst the heaviest odds; men who, lacking a Crusader's cult or acountry's need to cut and thrust for, go out among the savage denizensof the desert seeking opportunity to fight for their faith in their ownstrong arms and steady nerves; men who shrink from a laurel buttreasure a trophy. William Northrup McMillan, a native of St. Louis, who has spent the last eight years in exploration of the Blue Nile andin travel through Abyssinia and British East Africa, is such a man. 

A friend of Mr. McMillan has told me the following story of one of hishunting experiences. While I can only tell it in simple prose, thedeed described deserves perpetuity in the stately metre of a saga. 

The Jig-Jigga country, a province of Abyssinia lying near the border ofBritish Somaliland and governed by Abdullah Dowa, an Arab sheik owingallegiance to King Menelek, is the best lion country in all Africa. Jig-Jigga is an arid plateau averaging 5, 000 feet above sea level, poorly watered but generously grassed, sparsely timbered with thethorny mimosa (full brother to the Texas _mesquite_), and swarmingeverywhere with innumerable varieties of the wild game on which thelion preys and fattens--eland, oryx, hartebeest, gazelle, and zebra. 

There are two ways of hunting lion. First, from the perfectly safeshelter of a zareba, a tightly enclosed hut built of thorny mimosabows, with no opening but a narrow porthole for rifle fire. Within the_zareba_ the hunter is shut in at nightfall by his _shikaris_, usuallyhaving one _shikari_ with him, sometimes with a goat as a thirdcompanion and a lure for lion. An occasional bite of the goat's ear bysharp _shikari_ teeth inspires shrill bleats sure to bring any lionlurking near in range of the hunter's rifle. At other times goat earsare spared, and the loudest-braying donkey of the caravan is picketedimmediately in front of the _zareba's_ porthole, his normal vocalactivities stimulated by the occasional prod of a stick. Sometimesseveral weary sleepless nights are spent without result, but sooner orlater, without the slightest sound hinting his approach, suddenly agreat yellow body flashes out of the darkness and upon the cringinglure. For an instant there are the sinister sounds of savage snarls, rending flesh, cracking bones and screams of pain and fear, and then adull red flash heralds the rifle's roar, and the tawny terror fallsgasping his life out across his prey. 

The second, and the only sportsmanlike way of lion-hunting, is bytracking him in the open. The pony men circle till they find a trail, follow it till close enough to the game to race ahead and bring it tobay, circle about it while a messenger brings up the _Sahib_, whodismounts and advances afoot to a combat wherein the echo of amisplaced shot may sound his own death-knell. 

One morning while camped in the Jig-Jigga country, William Marlow, our_Sahib's_ valet, was out with the pony men trailing a wounded oryx, while the _Sahib_ himself was three miles away shooting eland. In midforenoon Marlow's men struck the fresh track of two great male lions, plainly out on a hunting party of their own. 

Instantly Marlow rushed a messenger away to fetch the _Sahib_, and heand the pony men then took the trail at a run. Within two hours thepony men succeeded in circling the quarry and stopping it in a mimosathicket. Shortly thereafter, while they were circling and shoutingabout the thicket to prevent a charge before the _Sahib's_ arrival, anincident occurred which proves alike the utter fearlessness and themarvellous knowledge of the game of the Somali. Suddenly out of theshadows of the thicket sprang one of the lions and launched himselflike a thunderbolt upon one of the pony men, bearing horse and rider tothe ground. Losing his spear in the fall and held fast by one legbeneath his horse, the rider was defenceless. However, he seized athorny stick and began beating the lion across the face, while the liontore at the pony's flank and quarters. Then down from his horse spranganother pony man, and knowing he could not kill the lion with his spearquickly enough to save his companion, approached and crouched directlyin front of the lion till his own face was scarcely two feet from thelion's, and there made such frightful grimaces and let off such shrillshrieks, that, frightened from his prey, the lion slunk snarling to theedge of the thicket. 

Just at this moment the _Sahib_ raced upon the scene, accompanied byhis Secretary, H. Morgan Brown. In the run he had far outdistanced hisgun-bearers. Marlow was unarmed and Brown carried nothing but acamera. Thus the _Sahib's_ single-shot . 577 rifle was the onlyeffective weapon in the party, and for it he did not even have a singlespare cartridge. The one little cylinder of brass within the chamberof his rifle, with the few grains of powder and nickeled lead it held, was the only certain safeguard of the group against death or mangling. 

All this must have flashed across the _Sahib's_ mind as he leaped fromhis pony and took stand in the open, sixty steps from where the lionstood roaring and savagely lashing his tail. A little back of the_Sahib_ and to his left stood Brown with his camera, beside him Marlow. 

Instantly, firm planted on his feet, the _Sahib_ threw the rifle to hisface for a steady standing shot. But quicker even than this act, instinctively, the furious King of Beasts had marked the giant bulk ofthe _Sahib_ as the one foeman of the half-score round him worthy of hisgleaming ivory weapons, and at him straight he charged the very instantthe gun was levelled, coming in great bounds that tossed clouds of dustbehind him, coming with hoarse roars at every bound, roars to shakenerves not made of steel and still the beating of the stoutest heart. On came the lion, and there stood the _Sahib_--on and yet on--till itmust have seemed to his companions that the _Sahib_ was frozen in histracks. 

But all the time a firm hand and a true eye held the bead of the riflesight to close pursuit of the lion's every move, so held it till only anarrow sixteen yards separated man and beast. Then the _Sahib's_ riflecracked; and, with marvellous nerve, Brown snapped his camera a secondlater and caught the picture of the kill. Hitting the beast squarelyin the forehead just at the take-on of a bound, the heavy . 577 bulletcleaned out the lion's brain pan and killed him instantly, his bodyturning in mid-air and hitting the ground inert. A better rifle-shotwould be impossible, and as good a camera snapshot has certainly neverbeen made in the very face of instant, impending, deadly peril. 

A half-hour later Lion Number Two, slower of resolution than his mate, fell to the _Sahib's_ first shot, with a broken neck, while lashinghimself into fit fury for a charge. This was more even than a royalkill; each of the lions was, in size, a record among Jig-Jigga hunters, the first measuring eleven feet one inch from tip of nose to tip oftail, the second eleven feet. 

And then the party marched back to camp with the trophies, Djama Aout, the head _shikari_, chanting paeans to his Sahib's prowess, while hismates roared a hoarse Somali chorus, and all night long, by ancient lawof _shikari_, the camp feasted, chanted, and danced, one sablesaga-maker after another chanting his pride to serve so valiant a_Sahib_. 

THE END