Daily globe. [volume] (St. Paul, Minn.) 1878-1884, 1879-11-09


| altogether bad lot. He had killed two
or three men, and had been shot and cut
himself several times. He invariably
preceded an invitation to imbibe, or the
shooting OF man, by the expression, cts
fourteen inches between my eyes, and FL
smell like wolf" From this idiosyn-
cracy and his locd-thirsty disposition,
he was known and dreaded as The
Wolf" Prudent people however, address,
cd him as Joe.
The Wolf returned to town the next
day, and, on entering the saloon from
which he had made his hurried exit, qui-
| city asked:
:. Has that ar woman gomez"
lie was told that she was sick and
could live but very short time. A great
change came over his face; the hard fur
rows of dissipation and crime were trans
formed to tie pitiable lines of sorrow.
| Not noticing the dram proffc1ed hy the
| bar-keeper, he fastened to the hotel and
made his way to the bedside of the dying
woman. Abruptly he questioned:
"Was yer followering him?"
"No, Joe; was hunting him.
"Sure?"
$50 help me God!'
The poor white face, SCARED and deep
scanned by excuses and sin, grew radiant
| with gladness as Joe kneeled down and
kissed her. With seal of forgiveness,
with the pressure Of his lips but half re-
turned, she sank back dead.
Through the service at the simple
burial the following day Joe stood with
uncovered head, but hit bronzed and i'm
movable features betrayed no emotion,
nor vouchsafed any clue to the mystery
that enshrouded the confined outcast
and himself
The evening Of the funeral the Wolf
called on me at my rooms. Seating him
self, without preface he said:
Gas man Of sense an no coward, yer
kin look at a brave mans agony in the
right way. The past I've hidden for
twenty years, fur amt the kind to car
ry my heart on my sleeve fur davis to
peck at. But thar's feeling as though
I'd choke if I didn't talk to some one.
The woman buried to-day war nv wife.
Here's some letters the wimin folks found
on her an give to me. Yer look them
over while I chin fur I'm slow on the
read. We war married in the States.
when she war sixteen an just come Of
age. A bit after got the gold fever an
went to Californy. In a couple of years
I made quite pile, an went home fur
her. She war changed, and it warnt
long before heard the stories an found
the truth, tibet she had gone wroBg. He
war fne-haired chap who had come into
town while I war away. I war a
likely young teller then, but the blow
turned me into devil. I went fur him,
but he heard of it, and slid out fur Cali
orny. Itollcred, an fur twenty years
I've bin hunting him all over this coast.
A voice Of hell has urged me on, an I've
killed men, that the taste of blood might
keep fierce my hope of revenge. I've
never found HIM. During these years
I've heard about her once In a while, an
how she was drinking and going to the
dogs. I'd allus meant to see her when
I'd settled with him. His name was
Bill Armstrong"
The letters taken from the dead wom-
an, which had been looking over, were
mostly answers to inquiries regarding the
whereabouts of her husband. An untin-
ished letter of her own to some friend in
the East, and dated a few days previous
to her death, showed that to this poor
lost creature, with the grasp of death
upon her, there had come back to her
the glory of her first and only pure
love, and the unoonquerable desire to
die at his feet, freed from the burden of
his curse. Strangely enough, another
letter gave information of Bill Armstrong,
and stated that he lived near Boise City,
in Idaho. These two I read to the des-
perate man who sat before me, his burn
ing eyes cleaning with pain and his lips
mute with anguish. Wien 1 ceased, he
grasped my hand with, 'sThank yer,
stranger" and left the room. 1 watched
him mount his horse and ride out into
the black night. The Wolf was again on
the trail.
The circumstances have related were
wildly recalled to my mind during my
present visit to Battle Mountain by casu-
ally overhearing an account of fatal
shooting affair between Bill Armstrong, a
mining speculator, and Joe the Wolf, at
Boise City, IN 1878. The details of the
rencontre I give in the words of the mar
rator, who was an eyewitness:
"Joe met Armstrong on the street, and
and with the single exclamation, I'm
Aggie's husband? pulled and fred.
From some unaccountabe reason, he
missed. Armstrong returned the fire,
shooting Joe plumb through the heart.
He fell on one knee, and for a second,
swayed like reed before the storm.
Grand in his physical strength. in the
power of his hate, he recovered himself.
AS from the ashen lips rang out the old
cry, It's fourteen inches between my
eyes, and smell like a wolff he fired,
killing Armstrong instantly, and fell up
on his face dead"
Thoughtfully, to-day, I sought the
pauper's field, and stood before the rude
pine head-board which bore the name of
her whose weakness had destroyed three
lives. It was almost hidden by clumps
OF sage-bush, which, unslghtly and pal
lid green, were fitting growths of unhal-
lowed ground,
The old story of shame and SORROW,
common, in all the cpochs of the world,
| as the grains Of sand that drifted over
her lonely, uncared-for grave. Yet rare
ly is the recompense of sin so terribly
melted out as in the tragic end and way
| ward, bitter lives Of Joe and Aggie Car
land.
The Queen and the Herd Laddie.
One day some years ago, when Her
Majesty was STANDING on the nublic road