The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1877-10-03

! Win OCner literature. buG Vululy
Beyond few of lyrical and emotiona
1 poets, he knew nothing. Under the in
tiuence and enthusiasm of his owl
speech, he himself had softened consid
erably offered to change horses witt
me, readjusted my saddle with profes
sional skill, transferred my pack to hi'
own horse, insisted upon my sharing
the contents of his whisky flask, and
noticing that I was unarmed, pressed
upon me silver mounted Derringer
(which he assured me he could "war
rant" These various offices of good
will and the diversion of his talk be-
guiled me from noticing the fact that
the trail was beginning to become OBJ
scure and unrecognizable. We were
evidently pursuing a route unknown
before to me. pointed out the fact tc
my companion little impatiently. He
instantly resumed his old manner and
dialect.
"Well, I reckon one trails as good
as another, and what hev ye got to say
about it ?"
I pointed out, with some dignity, that
1 preferred the old trail.
"Mebbee you did. But you're jiss
now takin' q pasear with me. This ye1
trail will bring you right into Indian
Spring, and onnoticed, and no questions
asked. Don't you mind now, I'll see
you through"
It was necessary here to make some
stand against my strange companion. I
said firmly, yet as politely as 1 could,
that had proposed stopping over night
with friend.
"Whar?"
I hesitated. The friend was an eccen-
trio Eastern man, we'll known i'll the
locality for his fastidiousness and his
habits rs q recluse. A misanthrope of
ample family and ample means he had
chosen secluded but picturesque valley
in the Sierras, where he could rail
against the world without opposition.
"Lone Valley" or Boston Ranch, rs
it was more famliarly called, was the
one spot that the average miner both
respected and feared. Mr.. Sylvester,
its proprietor, had never affiliated with
"the boys" nor had he ever lost their
respect by any active opposition to their
ideas. If seclusion had been his object
he certainly was gratifed. Neverthe-
less, in the darkening shadows Of the
night, and on n lonely and unknown
trail, I hesitated little at repeating his
name to stranger of whom I knew so
little. But my mysterious companion
took the matter out of my hands.
"Look var" he said, suddenly, "thar
amt but one place twixt yer and Indian
Spring whar ye can stop, and that's
Sylyester's.
T assented, little sullenly.
"Well," said the stranger, quietly,
and with slight suggestion of comforting
a favor on me, "Ef you're pointed for
Sylvester 's-why Il don't mind stopping
thar with ye. It's little off the road
III lose some time-but taking it by and
large don't mach mind"
stated, as rapidly and as strongly as
could, that my acquaintance with Mr..
Sylvester did not justify the introduc-
ton of stranger to his hospitality
that he was unlike most of the people
herein short, that he was o queer
man, etc.
To my surprise my companion an.
swcred quietly: "Oh, that's all right.
I've heerd of him. Ef you don't feel
like checking me through, or if you'd
rather put &C. O. D. on my back, why
it's all the same to me. I'll play il
alone. Only you just count me in.
Say Sylvester all the time. That's
me"
What could I oppose to this mans
quiet assurance? I felt myself growing
red with anger and nervous with embar'
rassmcnt. What would the correct Syl-
vesjer say to me? What would tho
girls-I was young man then, and had
won an cntrce to their domestic circle
by my reserve-known by less com.
plimentary adjective among the "boys u
what would they say to my new &C
quaintance? Yet certainly could not
object to his assuming all risk on his
own personal recognizances, nor could !
resist certain feeling of shame at my
embarrassment.
We were beginning to descend. In
the distance below us already twinkled
the lights in the solitary rancho of Zone
Valley. / turned to my companion.
"But you have forgotten that I don't
even know your name. What am I to
call you?" ~
"Thats So" he said musingly.
"Now, let's see. 'Kearney would be
good name. It's short and easy like.
Thar's a street in Frisco the same title.
Kearney it is"
"But - I began, lmpatiently.
"Now you will leave all that to me, u
he interrupted, with a superb self-con.
tidence that I could not but admire.
"The name amt no account. It's the
man that's responsible. Eff I was to lay
for man that I reckoned was named
Jones, and after 1 fetched him I found
out on the inquest that his real name
was Smith-that wouldn't make no mat
ter, rs long as I got the man.
The illustration, forcible as it was, die
not strike me rs offering a prcpossess
ing introduction, but we were already
at the rancho. The barking of dog
brought Sylvester to the door of th'
pretty little cottage which his taste hat
adorned.
I briefly introduced Mr.. Kearney
"Kearney. will do-Kearney's .goot
enough for me-" commented the soi
disant Kearney half aloud, to my owl
horror and Sylvester's evident mystifica
ton, and then he blandly excused him
self for moment that he might person
ally supervise the care of his own beast
When he was out Of ear shot. I drew TIN
puzzled Sylvester aside.
"I have picked up-I meaI I hav
been picked up OH the road by gentl
maniac, whose name is not Kearney. III
is well armed and quotes Dickens. Wit
care, acuuiescence in his views on al