"Jack had one habit that city boys think belong to themselves"—
"Midnight lunches?" asked Cal.
"Yes; but Jack generally had his hungry spell about 2 a. m. Every night that our party was at the Bar E ranch Jack would wake us up and every one had to 'break bread' with him—only it was flapjacks instead of bread. Jack would do all the work, and he was an artist with the frying pan. He would turn those big cakes by tossing them out of the pan in the air, you know, and catch them after the flop. After our lunch a smoke, and while we smoked a few deals of Spanish monte and a story or two, then back to bunks. Yes, 'Happy Jack' is a character."
As Jack finished his story of "Happy Jack" a shout announced the beginning of the trials of strength, endurance and courage, which would probably proclaim the victor for the hand of Susan. Standing erect with arms folded over his breast, Red Plume watched with seeming indifference the trials. Susan, seated upon her blanket, appeared even more so; in fact when it became apparent that Antelope was not to be one of the contestants she shook her head and disconsolately continued her beadwork.
The braves vied with each other in feats of running, wrestling, jumping, swinging from one tree to another, riding in all manner of positions on bareback, bridleless ponies; throwing knives at each other's heads, arms and necks in endeavors to pinion the victim to a tree without doing him any bodily harm; torturing themselves with cruel whips; gashing and lacerating the flesh; being suspended from a pole or bar by means of thongs thrust under the muscles of the shoulders, and other blood-curdling deeds original with the savage.
Old chiefs watched the young bucks, and as the games proceeded these old ones shook their heads or nodded in assent as success or failure rewarded the contestants.
All were in gala dress. War bonnets of elaborate manufacture bedecked some, while single feathers adorned others. Small hoops fastened to long sticks were held aloft displaying portions of a human scalp, the hair floating naturally from one side while the other side of the scalp was painted a bright red. Every Indian lovingly carried his pipe, the red slender bowl made from pipestone mined from quarries hundreds of miles away and guarded carefully from reckless souvenir and market hunters.
As a successful contestant received his reward and led his bride away, the onlookers rent the air with piercing yells; rattle-boxes split the ear with their characteristic din, and tom-toms bellowed their dull intonations with a certain amount of regularity which produced that same agonizing monotony of sound found in a healthy foghorn.
In a group not far from the racing strip was Yamanatz, and thither Jack and Cal bent their way. Charley Rogers and his companions were making bets with anyone who would risk ammunition, money, clothes, ponies, blankets, guns, pistols or knives; and even war bonnets were staked. Yamanatz was about the only Ute who did not bet against "Brown Dick." Few of the white gamblers, who had come to fleece the Indians with their special style of confidence games, cared to risk their coin against Indian ponies or wampum. They wanted cash, and as the Indians had plenty to do to meet all the demands of Jack and his friends and Charley Rogers and his following, the gamblers saw little prospect of a coup.
The level, well-beaten, straight-away course stretched along between rows of tents, tepees and lodges out into the plain beyond. Indian races are not upon oval tracks and are not confined entirely to one dash over the course, but include a certain distance and back over the same ground, the finish being at the starting point. Other races are run where the contestant must lean from the pony's back and pick up a quirt or hat as the animal dashes past.
But the time for the great race on which the bets are made has arrived, and the restless, anxious animals have to be guided to the starting place by their riders and arranged in line with heads opposite the direction in which the race is to be run. Bare-skinned warriors on bridleless, saddleless ponies, a small, finely-braided lariat attached to the horse's jaw, sit like graven images upon their favorite steeds. "Brown Dick," whose rider is his owner, steps along jauntily, champing in eager fashion the silver-ringed bit supported by a silver ornamented Mexican braided-leather bridle, the loose reins held almost listlessly by the man in blue shirt and buckskin trousers seated on an English racing saddle. A little moisture around the roots of the delicately pointed ears shows that "Brown Dick" has been exercised. The muscles of the forelegs play beneath the skin as step by step he approaches the line; the veins in his arched neck stand out like small ropes, and the dilated nostrils reveal the pink membranes as each deep breath is inhaled. Charley has maneuvered for position, timing his arrival to such a nicety that the last slow step of his well-trained racer falls exactly as the pistol belches forth the signal to start. Simultaneously he utters a shrill "Go" and presses his knees violently into his horse's sides, leaning far out in the saddle and throwing his weight against the reins on the faithful horse's neck, who rears aloft, pivots in beautiful fashion and leaps in one bound clear of the line of frantic ponies, and amid the warwhoops of Indians, the yells of the frenzied and the fear of defeat piercing his ears he dashes on to victory. The struggle is not long, and the spoils won from the vanquished nearly bankrupt the entire tribe until the next annuities replace their losses.
There are no imprecations nor villainous mutterings. An Indian is a good loser and bears defeat in a philosophical, stoical manner. Immediately after the exciting races come the feasts given to the successful competitors, and the following day finds the erstwhile holiday-arrayed village desolate and uninteresting.
Yamanatz, Jack and Chiquita began preparations for the trip to "Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water," and soon followed the crowd of visitors making their way to the nearest railroad.
The last one to bid Chiquita "adios" was Antelope. He had little to say, but averred he would continually seek the aid of all the Ute gods, big and little, to bring the heart of Chiquita to Antelope's tepee.
"Antelope will wait many, many snows and take no other maiden," were his parting words.
The restraining influence which Chiquita and Yamanatz exerted vanished very soon with their departure from the reservation. Susan at once commenced to be vindictive, as jealousy and revenge gnawed at her heart. Chagrined and disappointed at the turn of affairs in the competition by the young bucks for their brides, she coquetted with Johnson, well knowing that in him she would find an acquiescent if not an aggressive leader.Furthermore, he was the brother-in-law of Ouray and considered one of the greatest of Douglas' band of great warriors and fighters. She soon became, in fact, Johnson's squaw, and no one in all the Ute tribe was more regal in dress nor feared more as an enemy than Susan. Her silver girdles, beaded buckskins, elk-tooth necklaces and other feminine accessories were the envy of squaws, whose chiefs were also envious of Johnson—aye, even of any one of Douglas's band of braves.
While the races and general carnival were in progress at the Agency a portion of this renegade band had wandered far out in the plains one hundred miles east of Denver, near Cheyenne Wells, where they quarreled with and murdered Joe McLane, of Chicago, and fled back to the reservation through Middle Park—Colorow, Washington, Shavano and Piah. Washington was wounded and had his arm in a sling when they met the outgoing party, of which Charley Rogers, Jack, Yamanatz and Chiquita were members, then camped on the Frazier River. Colorow offered no explanation of whence they came nor their object, but all four were in a hurry and hastened along through the Park.
Arriving on the Blue, where old man Elliott peaceably conducted a ranch and with whom the Indians had been on good terms for years, they murdered him in cold blood and left immediately for the Agency.
Upon their arrival it did not take long to start the undercurrent of open revolt. Susan enlisted the sympathies of Jane, a vicious squaw, whose husband had a great many ponies. Jane had selected a fine piece of pasture land and under the rights of an Indian "squatted" upon the land in question. It was the best land near the Agency, and Meeker decided to use it for cultivation and to "school" the Utes in the use of the plow. Jane objected, and quarrel after quarrel took place, Douglas even going so far as to assault Agent Meeker in his (Meeker's) own home.
A compromise was seemingly effected by which Jane was to get another piece of land for her pasture and Meeker again set the plow to going, only to have the man in charge of the work shot at by two bucks who were concealed in the sage brush. Meeker had repeatedly asked aid of both state and Federal government. He begged for troops, as the lives of the white people were in peril. As the aged philanthropist listened to the council held in a smoke-smothered lodge, where warrior after warrior gave utterance to his opinion in a language absolutely unintelligible to any but a Ute, and when at last Douglas made his measured, forcible, irresistible appeal to his brother savages to resist the onward march of the white people, he (Meeker) must have known his doom was at hand. Signal fires were constantly seen as night came on, and the murmur of discontent increased with the uncertainty.
Finally word came that troops were on the way. Captain Payne with colored, and Major Thornburg with white troops had been despatched to the Agency. The morning of September 30, 1879, saw the White River plateau under sunny skies—the air was warm and inviting. Twenty or thirty bucks of Douglas's band sauntered forth as though in quest of venison, others of the various bands had been out among the hills on similar errands, and it was not unusual for the majority of the whole Ute nation to be scattered throughout the reservation even beyond the lines for short periods.
Susan, Jane, Antelope and a few others wandered about the Agency buildings laughing, chattering and in the best of spirits. All seemed happy, Susan especially, and Antelope had not been so gay for a long time.
Still there was an ominous phase to their very good humor. It had that practical joke fatality which foreboded evil in every smile and made the heart sick for those who watched the sage-covered mesa and feathery clouds which floated from range to range. But a few miles away toward the Red Cañon on Milk Creek the troops were hastening. As the advance line swung up to the narrow gorge a few Indians in warpaint suddenly came into view. The cavalry made an attempt to flank the defile and thus saved the entire command from being literally shot to pieces by Indians surrounding the open death trap into which they would have marched.
Hostilities were begun at once by the Indians. Major Thornburg in his attempt to cut through to the main body was killed, with thirteen others. The rest of the troops reached a place of safety, and with the dead bodies of their comrades, the carcasses of dead horses and mules and the wagons, formed a temporary shelter until breastworks could be thrown up. The command was not relieved until the 5th of October.
Runners carried the news of the ambuscade to the Agency, reaching there at noon of the same day. During the excitement which followed and the shots directed first at the men who were putting a roof on a building, the venerable agent was killed and a barrel stave driven down his throat, log chains placed around his neck, and subsequently the savages in their fury held up the dead man's legs, imitating a man plowing.
Illustration: ANTELOPE, THE CIVILIAN, 1902.ANTELOPE, THE CIVILIAN, 1902.
ANTELOPE, THE CIVILIAN, 1902.
The women were taken by Douglas, Johnson and other Utes to the old Rock Creek village and there held as prisoners until the middle of October. Susan was left at the Agency and did not know that her brave warrior had taken unto himself a new squaw under penalty of blowing her brains out, nor that Douglas threatened another with death unless she, too, became his Ute squaw, while the other Indians jeered, scoffed and insulted the wives of the men who lay dead at the Agency. Yet these bucks dared do nothing but taunt the poor, helpless women, as Douglas and Johnson were big chiefs, and the women owed their personal safety to the declaration that they were respectively Douglas's and Johnson's squaws.
Upon the body of Major Thornburg was found a picture of Colorow, this signifying that the death-dealing bullet that killed the officer had been fired by that crafty old savage.
After a tedious examination of both Johnson and Douglas by commissioners, Douglas was confined in the prison at Fort Leavenworth for one year. Colorow never was taken into custody.
When Susan learned that her wily spouse (Johnson) had been unfaithful to her, she started at once for Rock Creek with the intention of murdering the white woman; but she was too late, as the prisoners had been led away and delivered to their friends in a place of safety.
The Utes were afterward moved to the Uintah Reservation[B]in Utah, but many of them visit the old Agency grounds, and at this writing (1902) Antelope again favored the White River people with his presence and his photograph in civilized attire.
[A]"Hot Springs"—now Glenwood Springs.—Editor.
[A]"Hot Springs"—now Glenwood Springs.—Editor.
[B]For authentic documents on the Meeker massacre see Chicago Tribune, Oct. 2-15, 1879; Denver papers of same date; Bancroft's History of Colorado; U.S. House Documents, 1879-1880 (Indian Commission).
[B]For authentic documents on the Meeker massacre see Chicago Tribune, Oct. 2-15, 1879; Denver papers of same date; Bancroft's History of Colorado; U.S. House Documents, 1879-1880 (Indian Commission).
In Eastern California there lies a strip of country less than a hundred miles in length and thirty miles in width—the Gehenna of America—a basin so defiled that the abomination of the Israelites, the Valley of Hinnom, was a paradise; Tophet, where the sacrifices of children to Moloch were made by this Biblical tribe of Hebrews, was at least habitable. Death Valley lies two hundred and fifty feet lower than the tide water of the Pacific Ocean. Upon this strip of land grows no verdure, and within its confines exists no life save the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, the hideous gila monster and rattlesnakes, all more deadly poisonous than sisters and brothers of the same family found elsewhere, each species a continual menace to the others in the never ending battle for life—vindictive conquerors at last being vanquished by more malignant foes.
The desert is one mass of burning, blighting alkali sand. The heat is beyond human endurance, and what few pools of water may be found by digging deep into the earth are so pregnant with disease-breeding, loathsome germs, that death is but hastened to the poor victim of thirst who attempts to assuage his sufferings by drinking the polluted reward of frenzied labor.
At one time the government established an observation station within the borders of this waste to give scientifically to the world an accurate account of the perils which await the prospector venturesome enough to visit this living ossuary—the realm of the dead and habitat of the uncanny. Records show that the government representative found the heat so burdensome that clothing was dispensed with, and in nature's primitive garb the lonely vigils were passed until the station was abandoned.
Years before, a prospector braved the perils of the desert and returned more dead than alive, but with golden sand and golden nuggets and tales of a mine whose splendor out-dazzled the wildest dreams. This prospector called the mine after himself, "Pegleg." He obtaining his sobriquet from the fact that one of his legs was a wooden peg. He organized a party and they entered the valley, never to return. Other parties were formed and attempted a rescue, only to leave their bones to bleach as monuments of man's distorted and perverse cupidity.
The government sent a detachment of soldiers, well versed in the knowledge of all the impending dangers, but none returned save a corporal, and he a raving maniac, upon a thirst-crazed mule. Thus the famous "Pegleg" mine became a legend fraught with mystery and weird, blood-curdling memories.
It was to this mine, "The Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water," that Yamanatz was to conduct Jack. The Utes in years gone by made the trip from the mountains to the desert land and returned laden with golden ornaments, their trappings covered with gold nuggets beaten into fantastic shapes. It took many moons in their comings and goings, and many fierce battles were waged with other tribes in the latter's endeavors to wrest the secret from the wily warriors, who knew of a safe but dangerous underground river bed, which wound its tortuous way beneath the sand-covered desert, cutting the wonderful deposit in half. But even this passage to that mountain of wealth was beset by terrors as frightful as those above the ground. Reptiles had ingress and egress from fissures leading to the surface, and one was in constant danger at every step, not from the trail alone, but from the roof and sides of that slimy cañon, the gloom of which added to the dark hideousness, as the feeble, flickering torches awakened the lethargic inhabitants of that abandoned inferno.
The trip from the White River Agency had been made by rail as far as possible. Every provision had been made that could be devised for protection against the evils surrounding the dangerous mission. The nearest station which Jack could in any way "guess" would land them near a point from whence Yamanatz could find his way was Mojave. The curious of the little town watched the preparations of the trio as they made ready to prospect toward the Telescope range. The party consisted of Yamanatz, Jack and Chiquita, and an old "forty-niner" who was asked to join them under the promise of good wages and the usual "interest" in any claims which might be "staked." As they slowly made their way along the edge of the great Mojave desert, Yamanatz was continually on the lookout for some familiar sign that would indicate they were in the locality leading to the mysterious river bed. Finally the fourth day found them encamped at the edge of a low "bench," or hill, mountains arising from one side and an undulating, dreary waste of billowy sands stretching to the horizon on the other.
"It is good," said Yamanatz, continuing, "On the morrow Chiquita will go with the prospector to the stream where yonder mountain meets the sky. Chiquita will watch and wait until Jack and Yamanatz shall return. The prospector will find an old vein of mineral in which is gold. He must work upon that while Yamanatz and Jack go toward the setting sun, where the buzzards roost waiting for those who venture into Death Valley."
This satisfied the prospector, who answered, "It is not much thet bird gets to put inside his 'bone box' sence the fools quit a-goin' ter ther 'Pegleg' mine. Ye hev bin told about thet, I guess, and ye don't look thet crazy as would attempt even a one hour's ride into thet furnass. I'll go with the Injun gal, and good luck ter ye."
"We will be gone five sleeps," said Yamanatz.
The second day found Jack and the Ute chief inside the well-concealed stone covered opening which led to the river bed. Armed with horsehair whips and gnarled piñon torches which blazed and smoked, they made their way, leading horses and pack mules along the subterranean passage. Occasionally the swashing of water smote their ears, and at intervals open fissures extending to the stream far below them were encountered, whereby cooling drink was obtained by means of a lariat and camp bucket. It was not difficult to replenish the leathern pouches provided for water.
The middle of the fourth day they reached the crumbling, disintegrated mass of quartz, honeycombed with gold. It was necessary to crush the decayed ore and extract the huge nuggets by washing in a pan. Occasionally the breaking of some of the rock revealed solid masses of pure gold, while in pockets of rusty, discolored quartz great handfuls of gold sand were disclosed. All that day and night Jack worked with a frenzied fervor, loading saddlebag after saddlebag with the precious metal. Yamanatz assisted until all their receptacles were filled, then a couple of hours of rest—sleep was out of the question. The heat and excitement rendered it useless to attempt it.
Packing the valuable pouches together with the few camp requirements which had been used on the trip, the return was commenced. The entrance was reached in less time than it required going; but now it became necessary to mark a trail by which Jack could find the way back to the cavern alone. Monuments of stone were erected in triangles, which gave the needed bearings for future use. More time had been consumed than had been allowed, and starvation rations for man and beast became necessary.
When the last monument to complete the chain had been erected it was midnight, and it was decided to attempt the crossing of the desert strip at an angle. Hour after hour they traveled, yet at daybreak no blue haze, no lofty peak appeared in that simmering, sweltering, burning waste. The trail behind them was as water struck with a whip. The sand in front gave no alluring sign. The ponies labored—the mules were restive. Silently as a moonbeam falling across the earth the cavalcade moved. Another midnight, and Jack resorted to his knowledge of astronomy to guide them from that fearful death which another day would probably bring. The constellation of Cassiopea seemed to beckon him in her direction. Again the red copper-colored sun appeared above the horizon; a faint blue line in front gave hope of relief. The ponies were allowed free rein to choose their own way.
As the sun rose higher and higher the heat drove the pack animals into a frenzy. The oscillating motion of those in the saddle was almost unendurable. Gloomily they looked at each other—the one seeing that shrunken, skin-drawn, parched, pinched human horror in front, wondering if he in turn looked the same. Still they lived and hoped. Again hour succeeded hour until the midnight of another day arrived. Suddenly the mules gave a joyful whinny and started up a sandy gulch at a brisker pace than they had been traveling. The last of the water had been divided that noon and no food had been tasted for three days. In another hour they came to a rock where a little pool struggled only to lose itself in the sand. But by scooping away the earth while the animals were pawing, even biting, the very ground, Jack was at last able to save a little of the precious fluid and appease their immediate thirst.
A short rest and the march was again resumed. By noon, gaunt and hidedrawn, two Indian ponies stumbled along the burning sands. Two horsemen with vacant, stony stare, pitifully reeled in their saddles as their horses wabbled slowly, painfully into the camp of the "Lone Fisherman." Pack mules with drooping, lifeless ears, tongues lolling from their mouths and hoofs cracking from contact with the poisonous alkaloids of the desert, staggered under their burdens as they toiled after the silent spectres in the lead. The dust-begrimed, skin-dried, withered, parched and blighted beings athwart those animated skeletons were Jack and Yamanatz. The load under which the beasts of burden tottered was gold. Death Valley had been invaded, and once more substantial treasure from the "Pegleg" mine gave positive evidence of the fabulous riches, surpassing the most wonderful opulence of ancient kings, which was accorded those who survived the horrors of the health-wrecking, life-destroying journey. A joyous welcome awaited the returned travelers. Chiquita had determined to get a rescuing party that day, but a kind Providence directed otherwise. In attempting the short cut from the last triangle of monuments Jack and Yamanatz had traveled in a circle.
Jack recovered his normal condition more readily than did Yamanatz. Before leaving the "Lone Fisherman," which the old prospector found of value sufficient to pay for working, Yamanatz and Jack again made the trip to and from the nearest located triangle and Jack had no trouble in future visits. He soon succeeded in obtaining from the Government a valid title to the ground.
The nucleus of that fortune was spent in fitting Chiquita for her college education.
She entered at once upon her studies, under the care of private tutors, and in two years' time the rapid advancement made placed her far along toward the goal of learning. Academic courses followed in quick succession, her wonderful intellectual powers seemingly never to weary or flag in their grinding evolution from savagery to civilized enlightenment during her self-imposed task of ten years in the bright fields of knowledge.
During one of the spring terms, when the birds taunted Chiquita with their freedom, Jack and Hazel proposed, during the recess of two weeks, that they all take a trip to the Indian Territory and visit the Cherokees, Kiowas and Comanches, among whose tribes were many relatives of Chiquita. Over a rough and dusty roadbed rolled a long train of coaches bearing tourists, farmseekers and business men through banks of smoke and clouds of cinders to the great farming lands of the west. At Coffeyville Jack disembarked his party and in a comfortable "buckboard" continued the journey. A couple of miles of dusty road between sweltering hedges of osage orange led them to the boundary of the Indian Territory. Along this in a never varying line for a hundred miles on the north side stretched farm after farm, divided from the highway and each other by thousands of miles of wire fencing. Bare cornfields and treeless wastes spread forth uninviting landscape, marked at intervals with the houses of the ambitious ranchmen, who, by preoccupation or purchase, obtained title to the soil. Alkali dust smarted the nostrils, and the glare of the noonday sun scorched the faces of travelers. Plowmen, making ready for the season's planting, rested their teams as the pleasure seekers stopped to inquire the road to California Creek.
To the south of the highway rolled a grass-covered prairie that seemed a great poly-chromed rug of velvet. The hand of man had not chiseled the virgin soil with plowshare, nor riveted its surface with post and rail. A well defined road led zigzag over its undulating bosom until the hideous regularity of section lines disappeared behind a friendly stretch of upland. Cottonwood, elm and oak became frequent as they entered the valley of the Verdigris and great stretches of forest-dotted park enchanted the eye and gave rest to tiresome monotony of treeless plain. Occasionally an unpretentious, unpainted shanty gave evidence of man, and inquiry proved it to be the abiding place of one of the precivilized occupants of unfettered expanse of the American continent, the other a "squaw man," who had made matrimonial alliance with the partially civilized companion.
"Jack," said Chiquita, after the inspection of one of these abodes of an Indian, who had adopted some of the ways and customs of his white brethren, "Cherokee once big Indian, now half man, half coyote; little plow, little hunt, little eat—little good," and she curled her lip in disdain as she contemplated the work of onwardness. Continuing the conversation in the more polished language of a college student, "Did not the Great Spirit, the one God of the Indians, put his people here in this paradise—this continent of flower-carpeted, forest-grown hills and vales, a people noble in thought, noble in dignified demeanor, with a belief in a religion simple and effective? Among Indians are no infidels or agnostics. All Indians believe in the Happy Hunting Ground and the Great Spirit. Do you know, Jack, of any country where the native race, indigenous to the land, compare with the noble red man as he was when the first white settlers occupied America?"
"Possibly the Arabs or early Egyptians might compare more favorably than any other nation that I know of," Jack replied.
"Yes, but Egypt and Arabia are of today, whereas the Indians are wards of a great government, and your government has condemned the Indian to a worse Siberia than that to which Nihilist was ever transported. Look; there is a specimen of what a civilized government does to a native-born American," pointing to a "half-breed" trying to plow with one steer harnessed up like a horse.
"Hello!" Jack sang out to the man thus referred to.
As the buckboard stopped a few rods from the shack, called a "hoos," the individual addressed pulled at his galluses and hat, then walked over to the fence, which enclosed fifty acres of newly plowed ground, said, "How?" and stood gaping at the travelers.
"Good morning," cheerily said Jack. "We are on our way to Pryor Creek and then want to go into the Kiowa Reservation. Can you tell us anything about the road?"
"Waal, I reckon yes. It's good goin' 'til yer git to the Verdigris. Thet nigh ho'se (meaning horse, pronounced with long o and aspirate s) uster belong to the "Illustration: Lazy L icon" outfit."
The answer was given in a drawling, sing-song tone, with full rests between every third word, when the speaker stopped to pick up a stick to whittle, to halloo at his steer or to show how straight he could expectorate a small freshet of tobacco juice between his teeth at some real or imaginary mark. His skin was a dirty soot color, and his raven black eyes and straight hair emphasized his ghastly pallor. He was tall and thin—built on the Arkansas plan of constructing ladders. His hips and shoulder blades seemed to meet, giving his long, lank legs the appearance of a man's head on jointed stilts. Jack made no reply to the remark about the horse with the "Lazy L" brand, but inquired the distance to the Verdigris.
"It's quite a patch. I reckon yer mought hev some 'navy' about yer close; jess the same if yer moughten—thanks."
Jack had learned that a plug of tobacco had "open sesame" qualities among certain species of human beings, and in his war bag were several pounds cut into goodly sized pocket pieces. One of them he handed to the "half-breed," who tore off a corner with his teeth, absentmindedly putting the rest in his pocket. The "tip" had the desired effect, for "Ladder Legs" recounted in the drawl of the Cherokee half-breeds, with its characteristic aspirating, all the crooks, turns, fords and distances to the Kiowa Reservation. In response to Jack's inquiry regarding the limited cultivation of the land so near the Kansas border, "Ladder Legs" vouchsafed this information:
"A 'squaw man' has little ambition, and a half-breed none. The environments of Indian life make a 'States' man dejected and he soon outgrows the infant ambition which prompted him to marry a squaw that he might 'take up' land in the territory. A white man cannot live on the Indians' ground except he marries a squaw or the daughter of a man who has had tribal rights conferred upon him; then he becomes an Indian and can have a fifty-acre pasture fenced, all the land he will cultivate, and the 'range' for his stock to feed upon. You see that bend in the river? Waal, a white man from the States married the widow of a well-to-do Cherokee half-breed. He is educated and has grown-up daughters almost as white as you be, and a nice house well furnished, and he rents out a part of his land on shares to some 'niggers,' or half-breeds, and they cultivate all the land he can put under fence. Some day when this land is allotted he will own an immense tract."
"How about the range you spoke of?" asked Jack.
"The cattlemen up in the States supply a bunch of cattle to some ranchman having a good range or lots of open country, well watered, around his house. Probably the man has a lot of corn and wants to feed the cattle over winter and take profit in so much increase of beef, pound for pound, that these cattle gain. Nearly all of the ranchmen have hogs to run with the cattle, so there is another source from which a return is anticipated. Pays, did you ask? Sure; all get rich who will work. But over there on California Creek was a young fellow who had a snap of it if ever a man did. This young fellow married the daughter of an Indian missionary, a preacher from up in Kansas, who rewrote the real Bible in the Cherokee dialect, for which the tribe made him a full-blooded Indian, as far as any rights in the nation were concerned. After they were married they came down here with their fine duds and bought a ranch over on the creek of a full-blood Cherokee. He lived there about four years. He had friends up in one of the Missouri towns in the livestock commission business and they had all kinds of cattle. They started the young fellow with four thousand fine steers in the spring, and told him to raise some corn for the next winter and feed the first lot on the range, then they would send in another bunch for winter care. Them there cattle drifted all the way to Texas, and do you suppose the lazy dude would try to round 'em up? No, sirree. He was just too nice. His hands were so soft he couldn't get a calf to the brandin' post in a corral, let alone rope a steer and brand him in the open country. The folks came down on him and he lost the ranch. His wife died and he went to Honduras, or the Philippines, or somewhere. But this yere land is all goin' to be allotted some day and then it is good-by to the freedom which we get here now. Yes, civilization kicks up a heap of dust. Good-by; stop and see me if you come back this way. Adios."
Chiquita seemed amazed to hear that an educated man from the civilized States would let such a golden opportunity pass him by. Mile after mile of the fairest cattle range was passed on their way into the Kiowa Reservation.
The time had arrived when Chiquita must return to college. During her visit to the old relatives who had married into the Territory tribes she learned that a distant cousin of hers was to be shot for the murder of a fellow Indian. The tribal council had tried him and sentenced him to death six months before, but on the plea which he made for leave of absence to go to his old home among the mountain Utes in Colorado to see his mother and father before he died, they had respited him. The time for his return expired at noon the very day that Chiquita was to start back.
She learned the story about four hours before noon—the time for the execution—and at once made her way to the council hall, where in solemn silence waited the court and executioners. Chiquita pleaded that they spare her cousin. The plea was made to deaf ears. He had dealt the death blow to a Kiowa, and by their laws he had been tried and found guilty, and by their law he must suffer death.
"Where is he, that I may see him?" asked Chiquita.
"He has not returned."
"He will come. A Ute does not fear the death that awaits him, even for a crime," proudly asserted Chiquita. "The Great Manitou will send him back. Has he not danced to Wakantanka with a buffalo skull hung to a thong that passed through the flesh of his back? Will one who has danced to the Sun be afraid to return to the Kiowa dogs? Polar Bear knows that the Utes would drive him back from the Happy Hunting Ground and be killed by them if he did not keep his promise to return. Polar Bear knows there is no escape."
"Chiquita is wise in what she says. The Kiowas know that Polar Bear has been a big brave and danced the awful Sun dance, but the hour is near at hand, and no word that he comes. What have we to insure his return, except the Indian's faith in the hereafter and that the Great Manitou will punish him in the Happy Hunting Ground if he disobeys the Kiowa Council and splits his heart with a lie when he promised to return?"
At this moment a shout was heard and a mounted runner quickly appeared, his horse covered with flecks of foam and nostrils deeply blowing.
"Polar Bear comes. He runs like the deer of the plains, when we lived in sight of the great mountains, the home of the Utes."
The council suspended all manifestations. The executioner examined his rifle. Polar Bear entered and bowed his head, then looked aloft and pointed to the sky.
"I am ready," was all he said.
The hour lacked ten minutes of the expired time. The executioner motioned and Polar Bear followed. Under a large oak he took his stand, stripped to the waist, a scarlet heart painted over his own. The executioner took his place, a few steps away, sighted his rifle at the painted heart, a puff of smoke, a sharp report, a gush of blood, and Polar Bear had atoned for his crime. Chiquita turned to Jack and asked:
"Is there another nation in the world where their criminals return of their own accord to suffer the death penalty?"
Most of the summer vacations of her college life Chiquita spent among the forests, crags and parks on the Ute reservation or in her mountain home near Middle Park. Hundreds of student friends visited her at the latter place and were entertained for weeks in a royal manner, to their great pleasure, a result which does not always follow the lavish expenditure of money. Tents, tepees, lodges, log cabins and quaint cottages were set apart for the use of the guests. A beautiful rustic chapel improvised for religious services and a hall for indoor entertainment were erected near the small hotel at the source of Rock Creek, where a famous iron and soda spring bubbles forth its sparkling waters of more than ordinary quality. The adjacent hills furnished abundance of deer, and even bear, and the famous catches of trout perpetuated the glory of a summer on Rock Creek as a lifelong realistic dream. The most elaborate of Indian trappings adorned the various abodes. Canoes silently sped along the surface of an artificial lake made by repairing an old beaver dam, and in the corral Ute ponies, Mexican burros or American-bred saddle horses, besides traps, brakes and coaches presented a never-tiring array from which to select in order to make pilgrimages into more distant territory.
A little garden furnished fresh vegetables, while the "ranch hack" made trips to the nearest railway station for other provisions once a week. Chiquita arranged for the pre-emption of this ranch on one of Jack's early visits, but by reason of mineral springs being reserved by the Government from operation of the land law, the property was abandoned in later years.
In making her trips back and forth from the ranch on Rock Creek to the college, Chiquita watched the marvelous growth of that great stretch of country between the Missouri River and the Rocky Mountains with sinking heart.
To Jack she confided her worst fears. "The Great Manitou of the Utes has been conquered by the Great Spirit of the white man," she was wont to remark as her knowledge of the Christian religion advanced.
In truth, Chiquita had ground for her fears. Leadville, with its never ceasing output of silver which rolled in a continuous stream toward the great manufacturing centers of the East, was welcomed by the idle, labor seeking armies as the Mecca of the world. The prominent transportation companies sent emissaries to all the great farming regions of Europe, colonizing emigrants to enter the immense uncultivated sections traversed by their respective charters in the attempt to make their railways profitable. Train load after train load of hardy, well-to-do Russians, Norwegians, Swedes and Germans rolled into the fertile valleys, peopling the arid wastes and starting the building of villages, towns and cities along the railway like unto tales of mythology. The impetus of this gigantic, overwhelming land-grabbing aroused the speculative world and money came forth from its hiding place to seek investment. Mills began to work overtime. Products of all kinds were in demand, for the comers to the new land had to be fed, clothed and entertained. Prosperity ruled.
"Jack," said Chiquita, as the annual trip was made across the great country to the mine near the close of her college career, "see the effects of education and civilization in these immense cities where ten years ago were unplowed lands, open prairie and treeless wastes. The untutored savage must go; yes, there is but one result can ensue, and while it makes me feel sad for my people yet I doubt not it is best for humanity."
'Twas the last of June, the wedding bells pealed joyously, the church organ bellowed noisily, the formality of congratulations followed along with the flutter of praises for the bride and groom, which they received because it was eminently proper and expected; a hurried breakfast, still more hasty good-byes, the whistle of an approaching train amid the excitement of baggage checked, lost or forgotten, a rush of depot farewells, a waving of handkerchiefs, a few misty eyes, then Hazel had a chance to breathe a long sigh of relief and Jack to unburden some pent-up adjectives as he picked rice out of his wife's hair and removed the tell-tale labels, ribbons and signs which decorated umbrellas, suit cases and wraps.
"Jack," whispered Hazel, as she nestled close to him in the railroad coach in which was no one but an old man, the train attendant being on the platform. "I was 'skeert' until you squeezed my hand, and I trembled all over. I thought I should faint, but I'm your wife, ain't I, Jack?"
"Yes, you are an old married lady now," answered Jack, dogmatically.
"An old married lady," repeated Hazel slowly, lapsing into a brown study for a moment. "Jack, is it such an awful long time since I was a little girl and you pulled my sled on the hill for me?"
"No, dear, it is but yesterday and it will be yesterday always, even if we live for a hundred years. Don't you know, 'It's only once in life one's boots have copper toes,' and my 'copper-toed' age was the happiest part of my life."
"Until today, Jack," interrupted Hazel, very decidedly.
"Yes?" inquiringly replied Jack.
The time for Jack to make his regular visit to the mine had also been selected for his wedding trip and Chiquita was to join the newly married pair at Denver, then all three were to "do" Colorado, finishing by spending a few weeks in Estes Park and the Buena Vista ranch, as Chiquita called her wonderful summer abode, later going on to California. Jack had purchased a fine equipment of split bamboo fly rods and all the necessary accompaniments, while Hazel, equally ardent in her admiration of the sport so fascinating to the disciples of Izaak Walton, fashioned, with her own hands, elegant rod cases, fly books and natty garments for the outing. Conspicuous among the latter was a short walking skirt and Eton jacket of brown duck, trimmed with bands of white and studded with brass buttons, in which she arrayed herself and practiced fly casting for imaginary trout on the lawn. A stop of an hour in Boston gave them barely time to transfer across the city of crooked streets to the Albany station and to settle themselves for the long ride to Chicago. Jack provided in advance for plenty of room, engaging a sleeper section.
By the time the train had shot past the beautiful suburban cities of Auburn and the Newtons and rolled into Framingham Mr. and Mrs. Sheppard were quite at home. They commenced to congratulate themselves on looking like old married folks and that no one would suspect them of being bride and groom.
"Jack, you know something?" said Hazel in her speculative way that always meant a favor to come.
"Well, sweetheart, what is it?" Jack presumed it was a glass of water or apples or that her pillow was not right.
"Well, you know."
Jack knew then that something more than ordinary was coming; that "you know" indicated not an uncertainty, but was the usual signal for a "hold up"—nothing short of opera tickets—and the young man wondered what unsatisfied desire was about to be "you knowed."
"Well, you know that little descriptive story you wrote of Estes Park, read it to me."
So Mr. Jack resurrected the tale from its pocket in his suit case and in his rich, modulated voice, read the story for the x—th time, he thought:
"Peerless Estes! That miniature world wilderness of wonder and delight! Set apart for the tired brain and careworn wreck from the sepulchers of business activity! A sweet paradise nestled amidst the encircling snow-capped peaks whose somber heads rise far above the habitat of microbe and parasite. Those silent peaks silhouetted against an ethereal dome of deepest blue or blackest star-bespangled canopy of night! The mountain air of Estes; the elixir compounded by nature for reinvigorating battling civilization!
"This enchanted arena, which pen fails adequately to drape in poetical luxury, was dedicated for combats between rest and toil, health and sickness, vitality and decay. The angler revels in luxury with the numbers of easily accessible pools, riffles, meadows, cañons, the most distant an hour's drive and the majority but ten minutes' walk. Occasionally deer may be seen and the 'Big Horn' come down their aerial stairway from the clouds to lick from the alkali waters in Horseshoe. Wait until you see the chattering magpie, with its bronze equipment and saucy manners. The foe of this long-tailed, noisy inhabitant is a blue jay (the one James Whitcomb Riley calls the 'bird with soldier clothes.') Hours may be spent witnessing the strategy, diplomacy, anger, spite and vindictiveness waged by these bird robbers and desperadoes, for both are notorious house breakers, murderers and thieves in bird land, as well as clever in appropriating kitchen supplies which they surreptitiously seize when opportunity is presented.
"In Estes a Sabbath quiet broods at all times, broken only by the swish of the angler's rod, the merry peal of frightened laughter as some maiden lands her first trout, or the crunching of horses' hoofs in the hard gravel roads as a pleasure party clatters by. Children romp and play without fear of mosquitoes or snakes, troublesome poisonous insects being banished as thoroughly as if destroyed by some mysterious necromancer.
"Where in all the world can the lover go"—
"Stop, Jack, look into the depth of my eyes and skip those charming nooks, bowers and rock girt dens where so many rehearse the preliminary episode which leads to the altar. I know that by heart; skip the 'lover' pages and read about the coach ride from Lyons, for we will get to Lyons Friday, won't we?"
So after a glass of water, an orange and readjusting of pillows, Jack picked up his book again.
"The ride from Lyons is so fraught with surprises that one becomes distracted. Situated as it is in a veritable fiery furnace of red, rough, ragged precipices, monuments of the eruptive age when volcanoes vomited billowy lava over the face of the earth, Lyons is the antithesis of what the traveler expected at the end of a tortuously curved railroad track, over which the 'mixed' train of freight and disgruntled humanity has been jerked, jostled and jumped along for about three hours, covering forty miles.
"But a delicious dinner awaits; generally fried chicken, southern style. This does not mean a sun dried remnant of a wing, or the active extremity of a leg with a burnt bone protruding through gristly skin, but a nice, big piece of a yellow-legged Plymouth Rock, the real article, hatched by a mother hen acquainted with the business and not one of those Illinois river incubators that furnish spring chickens at all seasons of the year to be kept well frozen in cold storage until called for. This chicken is fried in ranch butter to a golden russet brown, if you happen to know what color cooking calls for, and a whole lot of it comes in on one great big platter, so you get a chance to pick a good joint, but any part of such a chicken is good."
"Jack, you are putting in a whole lot that is not in that book just to make me hungry. My mouth has been puckered up for half an hour to get a bite of that 'yaller leg.' We are near Springfield; let's eat."
Suiting the action to the word they joined the motley throng in the rush for the dining-room, as the train came to a stop for forty minutes.
Fresh Connecticut River shad and roe, new green peas, new potatoes in cream, lettuce, radishes.
"There, that will kill your chicken fever for a time," said Jack, as he ordered for both.
"You may order me a piece of lemon pie, Jack. I see some on the sideboard and the meringue is about two inches thick."
"We want to go over and see the train for the north pull out; might see some Bozrah people, Hazel," said Jack, after the dinner, "it leaves five minutes before we do."
"Oh, sure enough, and there are a lot of students just going home. I suppose Chiquita is in Denver by this time."
"Hazel, there is old Deacon Petherbridge and Elam Tucker. I'll bet they've been down to New Haven on a horse trade. You know Elam had the big livery stable that burned down when you were eight and I was just eleven. You remember the Tucker boy was foolish and set fire to the hay, 'Wanted to see it burn,' he told the town marshal. But we must get aboard."
The last beams of rose-tinted sunlight percolated through the gathering darkness as the train sped on its way, winding in and out among the hills of western Massachusetts. Hazel watched the fading panorama as it dissolved in the gloom of the night. She was thinking of her happy school days among those very hills through which she was now gliding, a one-day bride, wife of her childhood lover. As the scenes vanished she shyly snuggled a little closer and whispered, "Jack, we will always be happy, won't we?"
"Why, yes; but what made you ask it?"
"Oh, just 'cause," continuing, "I kinder wish we had gone around by Hoosac tunnel, we could have seen 'Old Bozrah' hills and"—
"I guess my new wife is a little homesick," consolingly interrupted Jack. "Suppose we visit Old Bozrah when we come back and have a famous time going nutting and picking autumn leaves"—
"And getting ivy poisoned so my face will be all spots next winter. I guess not."
The obsequious, ebony-hued gem'man, in white coat with black buttons, interrupted the first family differences.
"If yoh doan mind, I'd laik to fix up yoh section; got so much to do won't git through 'fore midnight."
"All right, where can we go? This one across here is unoccupied," replied Jack, wishing to accommodate.
"Dat section, sah, will not be taken until we neah Albany, sah," came from the man of tips and corporation dignity.
They had been seated but a few moments when the occupant of the section next forward of their own was obliged to find temporary quarters as the ever-obliging servant of monopoly touched his cap for permission. A lady of prepossessing countenance, faultlessly gowned and of gracious manner, knocked, as it were, at Jack's door, addressing him, "May I occupy this vacant seat while the porter arranges my domicile? Pardon the intrusion, but all other avenues seem already taxed."
"Certainly, it is no intrusion; in fact, we shall be glad to have you, as you have had a long siege of solitaire," replied Jack.
"I do get so lonesome on my trips that I sometimes wish some one else had the position," answered the lady with that assurance which accompanies experience.
"Gathering from that, I judge you travel for business instead of pleasure," said Jack.
"Yes, I make two trips a year on business. I am buyer for Stoddersmith of Boston, and am on my way to Colorado and California. I shall visit Estes Park, Manitou and other points, then go to India and China."
Jack was no more surprised than if she had told him she was quartermaster in the navy, or a field marshal in the German army. He looked incredulous. The lady handed him her card, which read, "Miss Asquith, Stoddersmith's, Boston," remarking that if it would be agreeable she would tell them how it happened a woman occupied so important a position, and naively added, "The only firm in the world who employs one of our sex in this department, even as a saleslady."
"Oh, do tell us," said Hazel, and to Jack, "Just think of a woman going alone to India to buy goods!"
"This trip is really a part of my twenty-fifth anniversary with the firm,"—
Hazel interrupted. "Pardon me, but do you mean to say you have been twenty-five years with one firm?"
"Yes, and I am but forty-five. I went to work, a girl of fifteen, in one of the then larger western cities and after five years concluded I would prefer an eastern house. New York did not offer the inducement which I found in Boston. I was placed in the fur stock in winter and lighter wraps in summer. For some reason, after I had been with them ten years, they transferred me temporarily into the present department, later returning me for one winter to the furs. At the end of that season I was given the option of management of the entire wrap stock or a permanent place in the other line. I preferred the latter. I did not feel confidence enough in myself to be a buyer. You see, if certain styles of goods fail to 'go,' fail to become popular or to bring a good profit, there is a vacancy and a new buyer takes up the department. My sales in the new stock increased steadily. It became positively embarrassing to me at times when customers refused to have their wants attended to by the men in the stock, men who had been there many years longer than I had. But the fact was, it finally became necessary for me to make appointments just the same as dentists do in order to give the attention necessary to the trade. Three years ago I made my first attempt in buying from manufacturers in France. That trip was one continual round of 'stage fright,' and even after the goods were in the house I worried myself sick for fear the end of the season would be a 'blank,' as the boys say about lottery tickets, but the books showed a very profitable period in the face of grave reverses to the general trade. And now, to show their confidence in me as well as making me the magnificent present of a trip to India, I am on my way to buy goods. Isn't it lovely of them?"
"Well, you deserve it, even more if anything. Just imagine working for one firm a quarter of a century," spoke up Hazel very energetically.
"Many firms," said Jack, weighing his words, "send 'style hunters' abroad for the effect the mail from a foreign port has on their customers. Half the time these 'hunters' stay long enough to mail their announcements, like as not printed in the United States, look at a few hats or garments, perhaps buy a 'pattern' or two, and then return home. Other firms do send buyers into various ports abroad. Some have resident buyers, but I never knew before of any firm sending a buyer from the ranks of the fair sex to the Orient. Let me compliment you, Miss Asquith, on your high achievement. It certainly demonstrates the advancement of woman's sphere. But may I ask you a pertinent question regarding the social part of your life?"
"Certainly, I can guess what you want to know, and let me say, at first, I used to feel dreadfully when I found that the working girl is to a great degree ostracised by what is called society. But I learned that society is treacherous. If one has lots of money to spend there are certain attractions that it takes money to enjoy or provide. The different degrees of wealth provide their respective scale of eligible members to make up their circle of society, and the lesser lights are eclipsed or paled into insignificance by the grander candle power. It is the same in business, professions, art and politics, so I found that my sphere was probably cast in just as pleasant places among my class of those who work for a living, as though I had been evolved by marriage or fortune into a society star of any magnitude, where the jealousies and 'snubs' are even harder to be endured because of the still greater lustre found or imagined among more brilliant or exclusive sets into which I could not enter. Do I make it clear?"
"Very; indeed, you echo my own theory. But I could not have expressed it as clearly as you have," replied Jack.
"After all," continued Miss Asquith, "I doubt if the very rich obtain as much unalloyed pleasure from life as do the middle classes who do not aspire to greatness and are educated from infancy to make themselves happy in the strata to which they are indigenous, as one may put it. They are free to come and go any and everywhere, while the wealthy commence life in charge of a nurse girl, are educated by private tutors, attended by chaperones in their courtship and graduate simply to be put in charge of the butler, footman, coachman and maid. But I guess I have worn you out with my sermon on riches, and will say good night."
Hazel and Jack joined in their good night and discussed the subject some time, deciding to ask Miss Asquith to meet Chiquita and the four go as one party to Estes Park. As Hazel said, "It will give Chiquita a grand chance to study another phase of the life of her white sister, and, Jack, I guess the red man's squaw is not alone in the field of drudgery, after all."
Owing to through tickets having been procured, it became necessary for Jack to go one route while Miss Asquith took another from Chicago to Denver, arrangements being made to that end the day following. Jack had to get his tickets viséd at the Chicago office and for some technical reason the matter was of such a nature that it required the O. K. of the General Passenger Agent. As he awaited an audience, the official being for the moment engaged with another person, evidently a stranger to city methods and customs, Jack struggled with a long forgotten, dimly familiar something about the man that recalled brain impressions, which they say are never destroyed when once imprinted. He had been directed to see Mr. Lillis at such a room, in such a building, but that name carried no suggestion. It did not seem to fit the groping fancy of his mind. Still the name seemed to associate itself with the party then engaging the General Passenger Agent. As the stranger turned to go he stopped in front of Jack, looked at him a moment, then put out his hand, "Shake, old man; guess you don't re-cog-nize Cal Wagner in his store clothes. I jess cum out to God's country once more afore I pass in my chips to see how things look in civilization. How be ye?"
Of course Jack then remembered his quondam friend during the races on the Ute reservation, and the name Lillis puzzled him more than ever. He greeted Cal in a hearty manner, introducing Hazel.
"Wait a minute while I get my tickets fixed, then I'll have a chat with you," said Jack.
As he presented his tickets, stating the object of his errand, he noticed the official had a glass eye and scar near his ear. When the tickets were returned a name written across them identified so unmistakably a part of Jack's "vision" that he immediately recalled the story which Cal Wagner told him years before of the first grave in Silver Cliff. The name was "Bert Lillis." Allowing his curiosity to prevail, he asked abruptly, "Mr. Lillis, were you ever in Silver Cliff?"
The official started, a shiver ran through his frame, the color left his face until it was like a piece of Parian marble, while he replied just audibly, helplessly, "Yes," adding quickly, "Come in, I guess you must know. I—did you ever see me before?"
Jack shook his head, but turning to Cal said, "Cal, this is Bert Lillis, formerly of Silver Cliff."
Cal looked from one to the other and replied, "Guess you are mistaken. Lillis is dead many years."
"No, he is still alive," said the official. "Come in."
Upon being seated, no one seemed desirous of broaching the painful subject uppermost in their minds, while Hazel was completely mystified as to the conduct of the three men. Finally, with a great effort to restrain his feelings, his head bowed upon his breast, the railroad man said in broken sentences: "I—for fifteen years a blackened pall has shadowed my path, a floating, abandoned derelict moored to my heart has dragged me against the buffeting waves of the sea of life or held me helpless in the trough as storm crests broke over me in my misery. A man marked with the brand which God placed upon Cain for the murder of his brother, yet I was exonerated by the jury. I shot Les McAvoy in the discharge of my duty. I was a mere boy, without money, scantily clad, in search of wealth with which to support my mother, and had to accept the only opportunity presented in that lawless mining camp. I had no tools or trade and was not strong enough to do the work required of miners, and the camp had not advanced far enough to give employment to the ordinary run of commercial wage earners. It was instilled into me in early life to do my duty in whatever capacity I served, under all circumstances, and I considered it my duty to protect that gambling table even at the risk of my own life. The years of mental anguish which I have lived since that fatal moment, and the years which my poor old mother has had her head bowed in sorrow"—
"Wait a moment, Mr. Lillis," interrupted Cal. "You did not kill Les McAvoy."
"What is that—you say I did not? Oh! I wish—it is good of you to try to erase the stigma, but the evidence, the facts, the coroner's verdict, 'at the hands of Bert Lillis.' Oh, no, no"—sadly commented Lillis.
"Mr. Lillis, I will prove to you what I say is truth, and if the grave of Les McAvoy has remained untouched all these years, the evidence is in the coffin," replied Cal.
"Tell it! tell it! prove, first, that you were there; describe the scene"—
"You were dealing, you raised a Colt's old-fashioned, powder-and-ball navy six-shooter from yer lap"—
"Yes, I had cleaned up that old gun and loaded it with fresh powder, ball and new caps that day. They told me to"—interrupted Mr. Lillis.
"Sam Tupper sat in a chair on top of a dry-goods box; he was lookout. A man with mustache, dead black, like India ink. Les did not like your remarks and started to rise up in his chair, his hand goin' to his pistol pocket. You lifted that big Colt's with both hands and as soon as the muzzle of it was pintin' up and away from your own body you pulled the trigger. Les had his own weapon out; you saw it, was frightened, dropped your own gun and tried to slip under the table. As you went down Les placed the muzzle of his gun agin yer eye and cut loose. While this was goin' on Tupper never moved until he saw a chanst to open a drawer, grab a pearl-handled, silver-plated shootin' iron. He stood up, advanced one step, and fired downwardly at Les McAvoy's breast. Les writhed, turned completely around, his hand convulsively endeavoring to get an aim at Tupper, who stood with a malicious grin waiting for McAvoy again to face him, ready to fire again if need be, but he saw it was useless. As McAvoy finally pivoted, the pistol dropped to the floor, and with a crash he fell flat on his back, dead. You were under the table. Tupper stepped from the box, his six-shooter a smokin' and said, 'You got it that time,' then put the gun in his pocket."
"Where were you?" exclaimed Mr. Lillis.
"Right agin the wall, and McAvoy's head struck at my feet. One man saw this besides myself. He wore three gold nuggets on his shirt front, and me and him figgered it out that night and again the next morning, but mum was the word. We knew the gamblers would kill us both if we told what we seen. I left the place and returned just as the last testimony was being given. There was no evidence given of Tupper having fired a shot. As the body lay upon its side on the floor there was one wound in the breast near the left center. Just under the skin in the small of the back was a dark, cone-shaped substance. It was the lead bullet from that pearl-handled six-shooter. The round bullet from your Colt's navy went through the roof."
"Gentlemen," said Lillis, "I am now able to relieve my mind from this hideous vision, and it will bring happiness to my mother. I can see now why the gamblers removed me to Rosita and furnished me with transportation and money to leave Colorado when I recovered sufficiently to travel. The ball from McAvoy's pistol caught the lower portion of my eye, and the turning of my head just before he fired caused the bullet to pass out near my ear, instead of going into my brain."
"We must go now, as it is near train time," said Jack.
"Me, too," said Cal.
"Are you going west?" asked Jack.
"Same train you take, I guess," replied Cal.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Lillis, "I regret you leave so soon. I would like to entertain you if you care to stay over. If not now, at some future time; and, Mr. Wagner, you have done me a great favor. My poor old mother can live the rest of her life peacefully. Good-bye! good-bye!"
As the train pulled out of the station on the way to Denver the principal topic of conversation was the remarkable coincidence of the rencounter of Jack and Cal, emphasized by the more remarkable meeting of Cal and Bert Lillis.
"Well, that beats me," said Cal.
"I've got another surprise in Denver for you," said Jack.
"Will it beat this one?"
"Wait until you see our old friend, Chiquita."
"Chiquita, the injun gal?" asked Cal, inquiringly.
"Yes, Yamanatz's daughter."
The renewal of the acquaintance between Jack and Cal was an opportune one. As each unfolded his past and expectations for the future there seemed to be a bond of mutual sympathyformedunlike the ordinary friendships.
"Jack," said Cal, confidentially, "I have laid up a good pile of 'dust' and got as likely a ranch outfit as any of 'em. I ain't so much on talk as some fellers with slippery tongues, neither is any one going to get the worst of it as they do what deals with some of them slippery talkers. When Cal says a thing's so, it's so, just as sure as gun's made of iron. Now, I'm gittin' on in years, an' git lonesome as a settin' hen without airy egg. I ain't a pinin' away, but I would like to gin some desarvin' woman a good home. I'd kinder like to live in Denver and have a house up among them nabobs. I don't expect that big red stone quarry is goin' to give out right away and I just as lieve as not use some of it to build a decent mansion.