Orleans County monitor. [volume] (Barton, Vt.) 1872-1953, 1881-04-25

Scott was-rather too quiet TOR rough
set like that; sneakin' they called him,
but he weren't that. He kept hisself
mostly apart, and didn't interfere with
nobody so lone as he were left alone.
Some said as how he had been kinder
ill-treated at home-been a Chartist or
something of that sort, and had to up
stick and run; but he never spoke of it
hisself, an never complained. Bad
luck or good that chap kept stiff lip
on him.
This chap Scott was sort o butt
among the men about Montana, for he
was so quiet an simple like. There
was no party either to take up his griev-
ances for, as I've been saYin', the
Britlshers hardly counted him one of
them, and many rough joke they play
ed on him. He never cut up rough, but
was polite to all hisself. l think the
boys got to think he hadn't much grit
in him till he showed 'em their mistake.
sit was in Simpsons bar as the row
got up, an that led to the queer thing
| was going to tell you of. Alabama
Joe and one or two other rowdies were
dead on the Britishers in those days
and they spoke their opinions pretty
free, though l warned them as there'd
be an almighty muss. That particular
night Joe was nigh half drunk, an he
staggered about the town with his six
shooter, lookin' out for quarrel. Then
he turned into the bar, where he'd
know'd he'd find some O. the English as
ready for one as he was hisself. Sure
enough there was half dozen loung-
ing about, an Tom Scott standin' alone
before the stove. Joe sat down by the
table and put his revolver and bowie
down in front of him. 'Them's my ar
guments, Jeff, he says to me, if any
white-livered Britisher dares give me
the lie.' | tried to stop him, sirs, but
he weren't a man as you coald easily
turn, an he began to speak in way as
no chap could stand. Why, even a
'Greaser' would flare up if you said as
much of Greaserland ! There was a
commotion at the bar an every man
laid his hands on his we'pins, but afore
they could draw We heard a quiet voice
from the stove: Say your prayers, Joe
Hawkins, for by heaven you're a dead
mani Joe turned round and looked
like grabbin' at his iron but it weren't
no manner of use. Tom Scott was
standing up covering him with his der
ringer; smile on his white face, but
the very demon shining in his eyes.
1T amt that the old country has used
me over we'll, he says, but no man
shall speak agin it afore me. and live
For second or two could see his finger
tighten round the trigger, an then he
gave laugh, an threw the pistol on
the floor. No. he says, Il can't shoot
a half-drunk man. Take your dirty
life, Joe, an use it better nor you have
done. You've been nearer the grave
this night than you will be agin until
your time comes. You'd best make
tracks now, l guess. Nay, never look
back at me man; I'm not afeared at
your shootin' iron. A bully's nigh al
ways coward And he swung con-
temptuously round, and relit his half
smoked pipe from the stove; while
Alabama skunk out O. the bar, with the
laughs of the Britishers ringing in his
ears. I saw his face as he passed me,
and on it saw murder, sirs,-murder,
as plain as l ever seed anything in my
life.
81 stayed in the bar after the row,
and watched Tom Scott as be shook
hands with the men about. 1t seemed
kinder queer to me to see him smilin'
and cheerful-like for | knew Joe's
blood-thirsty mind, and that the Eng
lishman had small chance of ever seeing
the morning. He lived in an out-of-
the-way sort of place, you see, clean off
the trail, and had to pass through the
Flytrap gulch to get to it. This here
gulch was "a marshy, gloomy place,
lonely enough during the day even; for
it were always creepy sort O. thing to
see the great eight and ten-foot leaves
swapping up if aught touched them but
at night there was never soul near.
Some parts of the marsh, too, were soft
and deep, and body thrown in would
be gone in the morning. | could see
Alabama Joe crouchin' under the leaves
of the great Flytrap in the darkest part
of the gulch, with scowl ON his face
and revolver in his hand l could see
it, sirs. as plain as with my two eyes.
"'Bout midnight Simpson shuts up
his bar, so out We had to 60. Tom
Scott stated off for his three-mile walk
at slashing pace. l just dropped him
hint as he passed me, for | kinder
liked the chap. Keep your derringel
loose in your belt, sir, | says, for you
might chance to need it. He looked
round at me with his quiet smile, and
then lost sight of him in the gloom
- 4bo,,obt - ,oo b;,, ,oo;o uo,c