Lewis Alfred Henry
The Sunset Trail

Mr. Masterson and Mr. Wright conversed apart. There was no haste; the mob would confine itself to threats and curses while they remained in the house.

“Perhaps I’d better give ’em a talk, Bob,” said Mr. Masterson, at the close of their confab. “There are two things to do. We must get rid of Bear Creek. And we must let it look like the rest of ’em had taken a trick. I think I’ll suggest that we make our visitors give us those temperance speeches. They won’t want to do it; and if we let the boys sort o’ compel them to be eloquent, they’ll most likely quit satisfied. If we don’t do something of the kind, it’s my opinion they’ll take a shot at us before ever we place these shuddering strangers on the train.”

“Do what you reckon best,” returned Mr. Wright. “I’ll back your game.”

Mr. Masterson opened the front door and, with Mr. Wright, stepped forth. He considered the mob a moment with a quiet eye, and then raised his hand as if to invite attention.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “if I talk to you, it’s on your account. The people inside, in whose honour you’ve assembled, intend to board the first train for the East.”

“Board nothin’! Let’s swing ’em off!” cried a cowboy from south of the river. He was carrying his lariat in his hand; as he spoke he whirled the loop about his head, knocking off the sombreros of those nearest him. “Let’s swing ’em off!” he shouted.

“I’ll swing you off, if you don’t give that rope a rest!” returned an irate one, unhatted, and with that he collared the child of cows, and threw him backward into the press. “Go on, Bat,” said this auxiliary, having abated the cowboy and his rope; “give us the layout of your little game.”

“My little game,” continued Mr. Masterson calmly, “is this: I’ve passed my word that no harm shall come to these people. And for this reason. If they were even a little injured, the prohibition papers would make bloody murder of it. Inside of hours, the soldiers from the Fort would be among us, and the town under martial law. They would be sending you prairie dogs to bed at nine o’clock, with a provost marshal to tuck you in; and none of you would like that. I wouldn’t like it myself.”

“Let the soldiers come!” shouted Bear Creek Johnson from the extreme wing of the mob. Bear Creek had drawn from the whiskey under his belt a more than normal courage. Moreover, he felt that it was incumbent upon him to make a stand. Considering those plans he had laid, and which included driving Mr. Masterson out of town should he have the impudence to stand in their way, Bear Creek knew that otherwise he would be disparaged in the estimation of his followers and suffer in his good repute. He resolved to put forward a bold face, and bully Mr. Masterson. “Let the soldiers come!” Bear Creek repeated. “We won’t ask Bat Masterson to give us any help.”

“Is that you, Bear Creek?” observed Mr. Masterson, turning on that popular idol.

Mr. Masterson stepped off the porch and walked down upon the grass. This brought Bear Creek clear of the herd. No one, in case Bear Creek became a target, would be in line of Mr. Masterson’s fire. Bear Creek noticed this as something sinister.

“I reckon now,” continued Mr. Masterson, still edging in between Bear Creek and his reserves, “that in case of trouble, you would take command, and run the soldiers out.” Then, solemnly, while Mr. Wright from the porch scanned those to the rear of Mr. Masterson for an earliest hostile sign: “Bear Creek, you’ve been holding forth that you’re a heap bad, but I, for one, am unconvinced. I understand how you snuffed out the soldier at Fort Lyons; but I also understand how that soldier was dead drunk. I’ve likewise heard how you bumped off the party on the Cimarron; at the same time that party was plumb tender and not heeled. Wherefore, I decline to regard those incidents as tests. You must give Dodge a more conclusive proof of gameness before you can dictate terms to the camp. You’ve got your irons! What do you wear ’em for?”

As though to point the question, Mr. Masterson’s six-shooter jumped from its belt, and exploded in the direction of Bear Creek. The big bullet tore the ground two inches from his right foot. With a screech of dismay, Bear Creek soared into the air.

Even while Mr. Masterson was talking, Bear Creek Johnson’s fortitude had been sweating itself away. The catlike creeping in between him and his constituents had also served to unhinge him. Indeed he was in such frame that the sudden explosion of Mr. Masterson’s pistol exploded with it his hysteria. Bear Creek could do nothing but make the shameful screeching leap described.

Away went his nerves like a second flock of frightened sheep when, just as he felt the grass again beneath him, there came a second flash, and a second bullet buried itself in the ground, grazing his left foot. Bear Creek made another skyward leap, and evolved another horror-bitten screech to which the first was as a whisper. When he came down, a third bullet ripped a furrow between his legs.

Bear Creek Johnson had so far recovered possession of himself that at the third shot he didn’t leap. He ran. The ignoble Bear Creek fled from the blazing Mr. Masterson with a speed that would have amazed the antelopes.

“It’s as I thought!” remarked Mr. Masterson, regretfully; “quit like a dog, and never even reached for his gun!” Then, returning to the public, which had been vastly interested by those exercises in which Bear Creek had performed, Mr. Masterson resumed. “As I was saying, when Bear Creek interrupted me, I’ve given my word to the folks inside that they shall not meet with injury. But there’s one matter upon which, if you’ll back me up, I’d like to enter.” At this, certain scowls which wrinkled the brows of the more defiant, began to abate by the fraction of a shadow. “These men,” went on Mr. Masterson, “made boasts before they came here that they would speak on temperance and prohibition. I understand, from what they now say, that they have given up this design. I don’t like that. I don’t want them running into the papers with a lie about the lawlessness of Dodge, and how we wouldn’t permit free speech. If I were you, I’d have these Ciceros out, cost what it might, and they’d either make those speeches or give a reason why.”

“You’re dead right, Bat,” cried one enthusiast. “Smoke ’em out! Make ’em talk! If they’ve got anything ag’inst whiskey, let ’em spit it out. I don’t owe whiskey a splinter; an’, you bet! these trantlers ain’t goin’ back to Topeka, poisonin’ the public mind, and putting it up that Dodge wasn’t safe to talk in.”

“Taking the gentleman’s remarks,” observed Mr. Masterson gravely, “as reflecting the common sentiment, I move you that Mr. Wright be instructed to go to our visitors and say that we’re waiting with impatience to hear them on the dual topics of temperance in its moral aspects, and prohibition as a police regulation of the State. Those in favour say, Ay!”

There was a thunder-gust of Ays!

“The Ays have it,” confirmed Mr. Masterson. “Bob, will you go inside and get the muzzles off the orators? When ready, parade ’em before this enlightened and sympathetic audience, and tell ’em they’ve never had such a chance to distinguish themselves since the Mexican War.”

Mr. Wright withdrew in submission to instructions. While he was absent, Mr. Masterson indulged his audience with a few more words, lowering his voice as though what he said were confidential.

“Mr. Wright,” remarked Mr. Masterson, “will shortly appear with our visitors. During the exercises, I trust that nothing trenching upon disturbance will be indulged in. I shall preside; and I need not call attention to the fact that there are still three cartridges in my gun. Also, I might add that I don’t always shoot at a party’s moccasins and miss.”

It was the only thing they could do. With Mr. Masterson and Mr. Wright to give them courage, and despair to lend them grace, those visiting ones spake upon whiskey as the Devil’s broth and the hideous evils of intemperance. All things considered, they made excellent addresses. Not the best that was in them, perhaps; but what then? Patrick Henry would have fumbled for a word were he to feel that at any moment an auditor might step forward and edit a faulty sentence with his Colt’s. It is to the glory of Dodge, that the orators were broken in upon by nothing more lethal than applause, while each was made prouder by a whirlwind of cheers when he closed.

It was evening in the Alhambra. Those prohibition folk were distant by one hundred safe and healthful miles, and Dodge had returned to the even tenor of its ways. Suddenly Mr. Wright delivered himself of this reproof.

“There’s one fault I’ve got to find, Bat; there’s one thing I won’t get over soon. Why, I ask you, why, when you had him dead to rights, did you miss that Bear Creek?”

“I know how you feel, Bob,” returned Mr. Masterson in a manner of self-reproach, “and I despair of framing up an apology that will square me with Dodge. Why didn’t I down Bear Creek? It will sound childish” – here Mr. Masterson’s eye took on a twinkle that was sly – “but, Bob, I’m no longer sheriff; and, between us, I’m afraid I don’t shoot true in my private capacity.”

CHAPTER XIII – THE RESCUE OF CIMARRON BILL

Opinion has been ever divided as to the true reason of Ogallala’s objection to Cimarron Bill. Some there were who said it was born of Ogallala’s jealousy of Dodge, the latter metropolis being as all men know the home of Cimarron. Others held it to be offspring of the childish petulance of Ogallala, which resented the unseemly luck of Cimarron who had played at cards with its citizens. The latter would appear the better solution; for when the committee, which consisted of Mr. Jenkins of the Sheaf of Wheat Saloon, Mr. Sopris and Mr. Smart, notified Cimarron to depart, the ostracism was expressly based upon the good fortune which throughout four nights of draw-poker had waited upon the obnoxious one.

The committee, in a spirit of fairness that did it credit, explained how Ogallala did not intend by its action to accuse Cimarron of having practiced any fraud. Had such been the case, Ogallala would have hanged him instead of bidding him depart in peace. What was meant came to be no more than this: Ogallala was new and small, and per consequence poor, and could not afford the luxury of Cimarron’s presence. Under the circumstance the committee urged him to have avail of the first train that passed through. Leaving with him a time table and the suggestion that he study it, the committee withdrew.

Cimarron Bill was possessed of many of the more earnest characteristics of a bald hornet. Also, he held that the position assumed towards him by Ogallala was in violation of his rights under a scheme of government which guaranteed him life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The last franchise in particular he construed as covering in his favour the privilege of remaining what space he pleased in Ogallala, and diverting himself with cards at the expense of those members of the body politic willing to play with him. Thinking on these lines, he resolved to defy the sentiment of Ogallala, and stay where he was.

In preparation for what might happen, Cimarron Bill repaired to the Midland Hotel and got his six-shooter, which weapon, in compliment to Ogallala, he had theretofore avoided wearing. Being girt for his defence, he wended to the Arcade, a place of refreshment next neighbour to Mr. Jenkins’ Sheaf of Wheat, and seating himself at a table called calmly for a drink. Word of these manoeuvres was conveyed to Mr. Jenkins, who as chairman of the notification committee felt compelled to vindicate the dignity of Ogallala.

It was an hour later and, being in the hot middle of an August afternoon, the Sheaf of Wheat was deserted. Likewise was the Arcade, save for the presence of Cimarron Bill. Mr. Jenkins made sure of this by glancing through the window of the Arcade when returning from a brief invented trip to the post-office.

Believing that the time to move had come, Mr. Jenkins arranged a shotgun on the shelf below the level of the Sheaf of Wheat bar. There was a charge of buckshot in each barrel, and Mr. Jenkins entertained hopes of what might be accomplished therewith. When fully organised, Mr. Jenkins took a six-shooter and blazed away at the floor. He relied on the curiosity of Cimarron, certain in this fashion to be aroused, to bring him within range.

Mr. Jenkins was so far correct as to the inquisitive nature of Cimarron Bill that the smoke was still a-curl about the low ceiling of the Sheaf of Wheat when the latter came rushing through the door. But the door of Cimarron’s advent was the rear and not the front door, as had been confidently anticipated by Mr. Jenkins. He had dropped the six-shooter and caught up the Greener with a purpose of potting Cimarron the moment he appeared. This reversal of doors, however, was so disconcerting that in the hurry of wheeling, and because of the nearness of Cimarron, he missed that lively gentleman altogether.

Cimarron Bill replied to Mr. Jenkins with his Colt’s-45, and the bullet glancing on the fore-end of the Greener cut away the second, third and little fingers of Mr. Jenkins’ left hand. The blow to his nervous system sent Mr. Jenkins to the floor, where, being a prince for prudence and no mean strategist, he remained a-sprawl, feigning death. This pretense imposed upon Cimarron who, after helping himself to a drink at the expense, as he supposed, of Mr. Jenkins’ estate, shot a hole through the bar mirror in registration of his contempt, and sauntered into the street.

Mr. Jenkins, following the going of Cimarron Bill, scrambled to his feet, thrust a fresh cartridge into the empty barrel of the Greener, and hastened to the door. Having advantage of the back of Cimarron, that personage being distant forty yards, he poured a charge from the Greener into him. As Cimarron went down, Mr. Jenkins – who was no one to slight his work – unslewed the second barrel. It went wild, and did no scathe beyond sending one buckshot through the Ogallala Harbinger, which Mr. Sopris, chair tilted against the front of the Cowboy’s Rest, was reading, while the balance of the load shattered the front window of that justly popular resort. Mr. Jenkins, believing that the honor of Ogallala had been retrieved, sought the local doctor, while several unengaged members of the public gathered about the prostrate Cimarron.

The luck which had attended upon Cimarron Bill during his stay in Ogallala did not abandon him in his off-and-on duel with Mr. Jenkins. Sundry of those cartridges which were as the provender of the Greener had been filled with bird not buckshot, being designed for the destruction of prairie hens. Mr. Jenkins, in the hurry of reloading that right barrel, had selected a prairie-hen cartridge. So far from resembling one of those diminutive fowls, Cimarron was a gentleman of vitality and powers of recuperation. The birdshot peppered but did not kill. Even as they gazed, those who surrounded Cimarron observed signs of returning life.

This revival of the stricken one bred sorrow in the Ogallala heart; not because of an innate inhumanity, but, as events had adjusted themselves, it would have been better had Mr. Jenkins extinguished Cimarron. There is that unwritten jurisprudence of the gun; and the politer, not to say more honourable, technicalities were peculiarly on the side of Cimarron. If the story were sent abroad it would serve for the discredit of Ogallala; and a western town is as nervously concerned for its good fame as any woman. Hence the popular sadness over Cimarron’s restoration.

Acting for the best under circumstances so discouraging, the public, first caring for Cimarron’s pistol in order to preserve a future’s quiet, formally placed him under arrest. Then, since Ogallala had no jail and because he lay wounded to helplessness, he was conveyed to the Midland, and Mr. Smart detailed to hold him prisoner. In these steps it is believed that Ogallala planned nothing beyond a version of the affair that should bear upon its own repute as lightly as it might. Beyond saving its skirts from criticism, it would restore Cimarron to a pristine health, and finish by devising ways and means, honourable of course to Ogallala, for letting him go free.

When the doctor had tied up the three finger-stumps of Mr. Jenkins, he repaired to the Midland and picked the shot – number eight, they were – out of Cimarron. Following these improvements, the latter called for a drink; then, addressing himself to Mr. Smart, he exhausted invective upon Ogallala and her manner towards sojourners within her limits.

Cimarron Bill was still in bed and still reviling Ogallala when Mr. Masterson was given a recount of his troubles. Aside from their several years of friendship, it chanced in times gone by that during a dance-hall rumpus at Tascosa, Cimarron Bill had stood over Mr. Masterson, on the floor with a bullet-shattered knee, and with six-shooters spitting fire held the crowded foe at bay. This, according to the religion of Mr. Masterson, made a claim upon his gratitude which would last while Cimarron lived. Wherefore, and because a Western gratitude is never passive, Mr. Masterson no sooner heard of Cimarron’s plight than he started to his relief.

Since he must go by roundabout trails, it was precisely one week from the day of Cimarron’s battle with Mr. Jenkins before Mr. Masterson drew into Ogallala, and wrote “William Brown, Hays City,” in the account book which the Midland employed in lieu of a more formal register. Also, Mr. Masterson developed an unusual fastidiousness, and asked to be shown the rooms before one was assigned him. The request being complied with, Mr. Masterson in his ramble located Cimarron’s room by locating Mr. Smart, who stood or rather sat on guard at the door – for Mr. Smart had brought out a chair to comfort his watch and ward – and chose the room next to it.

“Thar’s a prisoner in thar,” doubtfully observed the proprietor of the Midland, who was acting as guide to Mr. Masterson’s investigations, “an’ as he mostly cusses all night, he may disturb you.”

“Disturb me?” repeated the bogus Mr. Brown. “Never! I know of nothing more soothing to the slumbers of an honest man than the howls of the wicked under punishment.”

Being installed, Mr. Masterson’s earliest care was to provide himself with a demijohn of Midland whiskey; for he had noted an encarmined nose as a facial property of Mr. Smart, and that florid feature inspired a plan. There would be a train from the West at three o’clock A. M.; it was now two o’clock P. M. This would give Mr. Masterson thirteen hours wherein to ripen his device; and thirteen is a fortunate number!

When Mr. Masterson passed Mr. Smart in the hall, bearing – as the Greeks bore gifts – that engaging demijohn, he spake casually yet pleasantly with Mr. Smart; and next, after a fashion perfect in the West, he invited Mr. Smart to sample those wares which the demijohn contained. Mr. Smart tasted, and said it was the Midland’s best. Upon this promising discovery Mr. Masterson proposed a second libation, which courtesy Mr. Smart embraced.

Mr. Masterson apologized to Mr. Smart for a thoughtlessness that had asked him to drink with a total stranger. He made himself known to Mr. Smart as “Mr. Brown of Hays.” Mr. Masterson remarked that he would go abroad in Ogallala about the transaction of what mythical business had brought him to its shores. Meanwhile, the demijohn was just inside his door. Would Mr. Smart do him the honour to cheer his vigils with such references to the demijohn as it might please him to make?

Mr. Masterson was about to depart when a volley of bad words was heard to issue from Cimarron’s room. The voice was strong and full, and fraught of a fine resolution; this delighted Mr. Masterson as showing Cimarron to be in no sort near the door of death. A second volley climbed the transom to reverberate along the hall, and Mr. Masterson, jerking the thumb of inquiry, asked:

“Any gent with him?”

“No,” responded Mr. Smart, leering amiably, albeit indefinitely, “no; he’s plumb alone. He’s jes’ swearin’ at a mark.”

When Mr. Masterson returned he found Mr. Smart blurred and incoherent. It was no part of Mr. Masterson’s policy to reduce Mr. Smart to a condition which should alarm the caution of Ogallala, and cause it to relieve his guard. Mr. Smart was the man for the place; to preserve him therein, Mr. Masterson withdrew the demijohn from circulation.

Mr. Smart, even through the happy mists which enveloped him, spoke well of this step. After supper, the demijohn could be recalled. The friendship which Mr. Smart and Mr. Masterson had conceived for one another might then be expanded, and its foundation deepened and secured. Thus sufficiently if not distinctly spake Mr. Smart; and Mr. Masterson coincided with him at every angle of his argument.

It was nine o’clock, and supper had been over two hours when Mr. Masterson again sought Mr. Smart at that gentleman’s post in the hall. Mr. Masterson had much to talk about. The more he had seen of Ogallala the better he liked it. As for Mr. Smart, he was among Ogallala’s best features. It had become Mr. Masterson’s purpose to go into business in Ogallala. Possessing boundless capital, he would engage in every scheme of commerce from a general outfitting store to a corral. Mr. Smart should be with him in these enterprises. While Mr. Masterson dilated, Mr. Smart drank, and the pleasant character of the evening was conceded by both.

At one A. M. Mr. Masterson supported Mr. Smart to his cot in Cimarron’s room. The invalid roused himself to say more bad words of both Mr. Smart and Mr. Masterson; for the room being unlighted, he assailed Mr. Masterson ignorantly and in the dark. Mr. Smart no sooner felt the cot beneath him than he fell into deep sleep, and his snorings shook the casements like a strong wind.

At half after two Mr. Masterson stepped confidently into Cimarron’s room. He found Mr. Smart as soundly asleep as a corpse. Mr. Masterson shook Cimarron gently by the shoulder:

“Steady!” he whispered.

“Is that you, Bat?” Cimarron asked, coming at once to an understanding of things.

“How hard are you hit?” asked Mr. Masterson. “Can you walk?”

“I’m too stiff and sore for that.”

“Then it’s a case of carry.”

It was within five minutes of the train. Mr. Masterson wrapped the wounded Cimarron in the bed-clothes; thus disguised he resembled a long roll of gray army blankets.

Being a powerful man, Mr. Masterson tossed Cimarron over his shoulder, and started down the stair. The injured one ground his teeth with the anguish of it, but was as mute as a fox. There was still a drunken voice or two in the barroom of the Midland, but Mr. Masterson – who had looked over the route in the afternoon – eliminated whatever risk existed of meeting anyone by making for a side door.

Once in the dark street, by circuitous paths, Mr. Masterson sought the station. He did not go to the depot proper, but found a place a little distance up the track, where the smoking-car would stop. Also, he took the side opposite to that on which passengers got on and off the train. There he waited in the deep shadow of a line of freight cars, supporting the drooping Cimarron against the nearest car. The two were in time; Mr. Masterson could see the headlight, and hear the scream of the engine.

The express swept in and stopped; by the best of best fortunes the forward platform of the smoking-car paused squarely in front of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron. Cautiously Mr. Masterson picked up his charge and placed him upon the topmost step. Then he swung himself aboard and made ready to drag Cimarron inside. The latter met the situation in a manner excessively limp and compliant; for all his iron nerve, he had fainted.

As Mr. Masterson bent over Cimarron, some unauthorized person came from out the darkness.

“Whom have you got there?”

As the one in search of knowledge hove in reach, Mr. Masterson smote him upon the head with his heavy eight-inch pistol. The inquiring one went over backward, and Mr. Masterson was pleased to see that he fell free of the wheels. Yes, it was right; the unknown had sinned the sin of an untimely curiosity.

The engine whistled, the train moved, and Mr. Masterson packed the unconscious Cimarron into the car and placed him in the nearest seat. There were half a dozen passengers scattered about; all were soundly slumbering. Mr. Masterson drew a breath of relief, and wiped his face; for the night was an August night and the work had been hot. Then he rearranged Cimarron’s blankets, and threw a cupful of water in his face by way of restorative. That, and the breeze through the lifted window, caused Cimarron to open his eyes.

“Give me some whiskey.”

Mr. Masterson looked conscience-stricken.

“I forgot the whiskey!”

“Forgot the whiskey!” repeated Cimarron, in feeble scorn. “What kind of a rescue party do you call this? I’d sooner have stayed where I was! Besides, I had it laid out how I’d finish shootin’ up that Jenkins party the moment I could totter over to the Sheaf of Wheat.”

Mr. Masterson, to whom the petulance of the sick was as nothing, vouchsafed no return, and Cimarron sank back exhausted.

When the conductor appeared, the wary Mr. Masterson met that functionary in the car door.

“Got any children?” asked Mr. Masterson.

“Five,” said the conductor, whom it is superfluous to say was a married man; “five; an’ another in the shops.”

“The reason I ask,” observed Mr. Masterson, “is that my brother over there has measles, and I wouldn’t want you to go packing it back to your babies. I have to wrap him up to keep him from catching cold. The doctor said that if he ever caught cold once we’d have some fun.”

While Mr. Masterson was exploring Ogallala and perfecting his scheme of rescue, he had purchased tickets to Grand Island. He bought tickets to Grand Island because he intended to get off at North Platte; the ticket-buying was a ruse and meant to break the trail. The conductor, as he received Mr. Masterson’s tickets, thanked him for his forethought in defending his children from the afflicted brother.

“I’m a father myself,” said Mr. Masterson, who in amplification of any strategy was ever ready to round off one mendacity with another.

The dawn was showing when the train drew in at North Platte. Shouldering the helpless Cimarron, Mr. Masterson stepped onto the deserted station platform. Cimarron gave a querulous groan.

“Where be you p’intin’ out for now?” he demanded. “I’m gettin’ a heap tired of this rescue. It’s too long, an’ besides it’s too toomultuous.”

“Tired or no,” responded Mr. Masterson, steadily, “you’re going to be rescued just the same.” The Cochino Colorow was a gentleman whose true name was Mr. Cooper. He had been rebaptised as the “Cochino Colorow,” which means the “Red Hog,” by the Mexicans and the Apaches when he was a scout for General Crook, and about the time the latter gained from the same sources his own title of the “Gray Fox.”

Mr. Cooper was not heralded as the Cochino Colorow because of any aggressive gluttonies; but he was round and with a deal of jowl, and suffered from a nose that, colour and contour, looked like the ace of hearts. Besides, Mr. Cooper had red hair. These considerations induced the Mexicans and Apaches to arise as one man and call him the Cochino Colorow; and the name stuck.

Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had been fellow scouts under the wise Ben Clark when the latter guided the Black Kettle wanderings of General Custer. Since then the Cochino Colorow had adopted more peaceful pursuits as proprietor of the Bank Exchange in North Platte, and on the morning when Mr. Masterson, with Cimarron over his shoulder like a sack of oats, came seeking him, he was a familiar as well as a foremost figure of that commonwealth.

The Bank Exchange was almost empty of customers when Mr. Masterson and his burden arrived; a few all-night souls were still sleepily about a faro table, and the Cochino Colorow himself was behind the box. “Hello, Bat!” exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, manifestly surprised, and turning the box on its side to show a recess in the deal. “Where in the name of Santa Ana do you come from? What’s that you’re totin’?”

“I’m totin’ a friend,” replied Mr. Masterson.

The Cochino Colorow hastily assigned a talented person who was keeping the case, to deal the interrupted game, while he in person waited upon the wants of the fugitives. Mr. Masterson told the story of their adventures to the Cochino Colorow.

“And for all my walking in the water about those tickets,” concluded Mr. Masterson, “I’m afraid the Ogallala outfit will cross up with us before ever I can freight Cimarron into Dodge. The moment that drunkard Smart comes to, or the rest of ’em find they’re shy Cimarron, they’ll just about take to lashing and back-lashing the situation with the telegraph, and I figure they’ll cut our trail.”

“Which if they should,” confidently returned the Cochino Colorow, “we’ll stand ’em off all right. Between us, I’m the whole check-rack in North Platte.”

Mr. Masterson’s fears were justified. As early as the afternoon of the same day, Mr. Sopris and a companion, whom Mr. Masterson, because of the handkerchief which bound his brows, suspected to be the inquisitive one, walked into the Bank Exchange. Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had remarked their approach from a window while they were yet two blocks away.

“Is either of ’em that Jenkins crim’nal?” asked the Cochino Colorow.

“No,” said Mr. Masterson.

“I’m shore sorry,” replied the Cochino Colorow. “If one of ’em now was that Jenkins crim’nal, we’d nacherally prop pore Cimarron up by this yere window, an’ let him have a crack at him with my Winchester.”

The Cochino Colorow suggested that Mr. Masterson retire to the room where lay the invalid Cimarron. He said that he could best treat with the visitors alone.

Cimarron was tossing to and fro on a couch in a cubby-hole of an apartment immediately to the rear of the Bank Exchange bar. Since the intervening partition was of pine boards, an inch for thickness, what passed between the Cochino Colorow and the invaders fell plainly upon the listening ears of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron.