The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1905-03-19
REVIVAL
By Chauhcey Thomas

OF tear dimned blue eyes in Boston
read. Then the Rev. Ashton-Ken got
drunk. He compounded matters by be-
ing found in Widow Dawson's hen
house. When discovered in his retreat
py committee bearing forty feet Of
half inch rope, who wanted to know
what had become Of the $269.40 church
fund, the Rev. John Ashton-Kent had
uttered a war whoop and opened a
Calling fire on his inquisitors with the
contents of a setting-hen's nest. Then.
swinging squawking Brahma rooster
by the neck, he beat his way to liberty.
The chicken lost innumerabie feathers
and its life. Yelling like a Comanche,
the Rev. John Ashton Kent, his shiny
black coat trimmed with feathers, had
raced down the main street of Kiowa.
Close behind the flying preacher
came the committee with the rope.
They swayed and stumbled, yelping like
coyotes In front of the drug store,
Andy Wilson's roam cow horse stood
united, after the manner of all good
COW horses. Whipping the trailing
lines over the cayuses head, Rev. John
Ashton-Kent scrambled into the saddle.
With a whoop he sped out of Kiowa,
en- route direct for Kansas City, 400
miles away. The committee stopped
aghast. Horse stealing! They solemn
ly seated themselves in the middle Of
the street and watched a bewildered
roam cow horse with a rollicking figure
in black on his back disappear in q
halo of dust over a distant ridge.
Without rising. the committee hitch
ed around into ring, put their heads
together and consulted. The commit
tee arose.
What's e done? Don't yah see?
Lifted the church Doodle, blew II in,
went sneaking round Widow Dawson's
for no good purpose. Looks like II,
don't it? Found 'em In the hen coop,
stole my roam and lit out. Where's
Bob Steele? Hey, Bobi Here, you brand
new policeman, you, why don't you
catch the horse thief? Chance to polish
your star" hiccoughed old man Mitch,
evidently the leader, as he carried the
rope.
Steele demurred. HE had not vet
been sworn in" etc. Makes no differ
ence. That's my horse, Jim-Roan
Jimmie-sir, the best horse on a rope
In Ebert county, sir, and you've got to
git him back for me. Didn't We 'lect
you to do that very thing?"
There was no answering the last ar
gument. Leisurely Bob Steele saddled
rangey bay, borrowed a Winchester,
and trotted away to the east. He knew
that drunken rider on Roam Jim
would take many an hour to catch; for
that broncho. next to his own dappled
gray beauty, Silverheels, just then in
training for coming races, was the best
traveller on the divide On long chase
the horse that starts slowest goes fur
thest And good rider on a poor horse
will run down a poor rider on a good
horse.
Two days later, In the Sand Hills,
some fifty miles east of Denver, two
men were wandering. Both were con-
sumed with a burning thirst. One had
the throat that only a debauch wills
to fool. He was on horseback, dressed
In black. A battered silk tile glittered
in the sun. Chicken feathers appeared
here and there. The other was on foot,
hobbling along with Winchester rife
for a crutch. His thirst was that of
torture and a wound. Each man was
In desperate straits. He on the stag
gering roam horse was lost. He on foot
was wounded and weak. His horse had
fallen, broken its own leg and bruised
that of its rider. They met. Sheriff
and horse thief were pleased to see
each other. They shook hands. Their
pleasure was genuine. The unpleasant
official business between them remain
ed unmentioned. Neither man had
many words to waste. Both spoke in
hoarse whispers.