San Marcos free press. [volume] (San Marcos, Tex.) 1877-1892, 1883-02-15
Sandy or Roaring Fork.

camp on Roaring Fork was >. M.
SSanSers. II was years afterwards be-
on any one knew that he was any
, hing but plain Sandy" but if a
Ian has a front name it is bound to
come out sooner or later.
n was later when it turned out
chat aSandy" was not only Sanders,
INIT ]. M. Sanders, and like as not
come of his letters had Esq" at the
and Of his name.
Well, Sandy was good mana
real good man. He always had a
rsmedy for every complaint, from
hills and fever to being so homesick
that the patient would have given his
loft arm for sight of the old red
farmhouse in the States. He was
also praying man, and on Sunday,
when he didn't have too much patch
inc and darning to do he read from
the Bible and exhorted us that the
road to heaven led through trials and
tribulations and over hills where a
man shod with the strongest faith had
to look out for his footing.
Which I may remark right here
was also the belief of several others
in camp, including your humble SER
want.
Sandy didn't play cards nor drink
nor howl around with his hat on his
ear and his teeth on edge, and for
this reason he was dispised by some
and admired by others. If he had a
weak point it was his too forgiving
spirit. Once in a while, when one of
the men rubbed him little too hard,
there was warning of danger in his
blue eyes, but he let a half-drunken
miner spit in his face one day without
betraying the least show of anger.
The same was talked over in camp,
and we were divided as to whether it
was fear of the miners fist or pity for
his befuddled condition which prevent
ed a knock down. However, there
came day when the old man settled
the long standing query of whether
he had fight in him or not.
Two miles above us was the camp
of the "Howling Wild Cats" One day
big Jim Stevens, standing six feet two
in his boots and having fist as big
as two-quart jug, got hold of some
particularly good whisky, and after
licking the best man in his own camp
he came down to give us whirl.
Some of our men, probably out of
mere deviltry, told Jim that Sandy
was our fighting man and the hardest
hitter west of the Nebraska prairies.
What did big Jim do but hunt up
our parson and give him to under
stand that the awfulest, bloodiest,
fercest and most desperate struggle
ever known on the face of this globe
was about to take place.
James Stevens, you go home" re-
piled Sandy.
"Sandy, I'm going to lick you till
you can't beller!" chuckled Jim.
go away! I've nothing against
you" warned the parson.
SANDY, prepare to be driven head
first into the sile!" yelled Jim, and
with that he spit on his hands and
turned on full head of steam.
We were all there, you know, but
there was a sort of understood law or
custom in the mining camps that
fight must be fought out without a
third party chipping in. And besides,
some of us had a sneaking suspicion
that Sandy would astonish the coun'
try if cornered and compelled to use
his muscle.
Big Jim rushed in like q locomo-
tive going for spring lamb, but he
didn' tget there. When he come within
striking distance Sandy shot out and
keeled him over in such style that
some one called for three cheers. Jim
got up slowly, made another rush,
and the result was the same. He
wouldn't have tried it again
but for the jeers and taunts of the
men. The third round was beauti-
full affair. Jim advanced alowly hands
up, prize-ring, fashion, and for a
minute we weakened bit on our
man. Foot to foot they eyed each
other, and spared for an opening.
Then like streak of creased light
ming, Sandy shot out with his left and
Jim went down like log and had
enough.
Then who washed the blood from
his face? Theparson.
Who lifted him up and walked him
away, speaking as kindly as woman?
The parson.
Yes, it was, and it was the same
rarSnn rhn rralknd To his camn with