Connecticut western news., 1902-03-20
CANAAN, CONN. THURSDAY MARCH 20,

got 10 pay the price, 1 suppose, put Conchita"-his voice seemed almost to tremble as 1t fioated up to Maguire- 'she followed me here, and now-well, I reckon you'll give her a chance to get up there safe"
 Mcguire nodded grimly. He knew what those words meant. Wolfe meant to die fighting. There would be no surrender. The men of the posse kept a sharp eye on the Me1icans, who now seemed too stunned even to pick up their firearms. Mcguire kept his gun trained on Wolfe as the latter stood a moment in earnest conversa- ton with Conchita. He saw something white slipped into her hands and scent ed treachery, but as she pushed the packet into the bosom of her gown he saw that 1t was merely a bundle of papers or letters.
 Without looking at his companions and with Maguire's gun still aimed at his heart, Wolfe led Conchita to the narrow goat path. She took half a dozen steps, then paused, turned and stretched out her arms. Eight deputies imperiled their lives by closing their eyes.
 Conchita sprang up the path and without looking back dashed into the undergrowth on the summit and dis appeared. A second later there fioated up to Mcguire Randall Wolfe's taunt- ing laugh. He swung round on the eringing Mexicans.
 Fight, you cowardsr' he cried and aimed at Maguire. The fusillade was on.
 
 The next day a ghastly quiet hung over Cimnrron. The coroner had rid den to the Devils caldron, and four bullet riddled bodies lay in the towns small undertaking establishment. The armed guards still patrolled the town. The members of the sheriff's posse had been spirited away to Denver, Pueblo or Canon City. A dozen reporters from city dailies were on the scene. There was talk of a Mexican uprising.
 A newspaper man who had been talking with the postmaster suddenly struck off in the direction of the river and the cabin among the willows. He was on the trail of a story, the true story of Randall Wolfe. Conchita met him at the door with eyes more wistful than ever and a pathetic droop about her mouth. But that mouth took on a determined curve as the reporter talk ed. She shook her head.
 But" he persisted, "did Wolfe never tell you anything about his people In the eastf He got money from them, didn't he? His mother wrote to him P
 Stil no answer. The newspaper man tried another tack.
 He's left you nothing, I hear, and 1t isn't to be supposed that his people will help you" He drew forth his purse. Now, I'd be glad to help you out if you'll answer few questions"
 The Mexican woman rose and threw open the door.
 There Is nothing to tell-nothing."
 The newspaper man shrugged his shoulders and walked out into the sun- light. He knew the woman lied. She watched him through the yellowing willows. Then she closed her door and crossed to the fireplace. From her bosom she drew a packet of letters. Among them was the photograph of a woman with white hair. These she laid on the coals and watched them burn. Then she sprang to her feet and tore from the wall a picture of her dead husband. With hungry eyes she studied each crude line, then kissed the photograph passionately and, with a sob, laid that. too, on the greedy coals.
 "Ah." she sobbed as the flames licked and curled the blackened pasteboard, mia cara, have kept my wordl It was all I could do, and they shall never knowr'
 Then, with her hands clasped about her knees, she crouched weeping by the dying embers.