Imperial Valley press., 1937-04-18

tered his head, rocks tripped and tore his feet,
the jungle ensnarled him.
At dawn Evans collapsed in the ranch house
of the Widow Perkins, six miles down the rocky
steep from Stone Corral Late in the day young
Perkins rushed in to Sheriff Kay with mes
sage from the shattered warrior. He could stand
the pain and fever no longer That night found
him in the Jail hospital of Tulare County.
Meantime, back at Stone Corral the possee
kept eyes and ears alert and guns trained on
the hay pile. When day broke Gard closed in
to find the stricken Sontag on his deathbed-
the pallet of straw he and Evans had fought to
defend. During the night he had sent a bullet
shrieking over the wagon brought up for the
wounded Jackson. He had fired twice again. A
vain and palsied effort to end the last chapter
of his own life.
THE possemen gathered in silence around the
straw pile The outlaw still lived partly COW
cred with the straw his partner had piled over
his shot-torn body. But few days later, after
an operation to him, John Sontag died.
George Gard, with one swift, brilliant stroke,
had rung down the curtain on California's most
fantastic bandit hunt!
Late one day a robbery tale came sizzling
the wire of a train holdup to be held that
night miles from Fresno. Sheriff Scott, leaving
his brother in lone charge of the Jail, sped off
on a special that carried away every available
deputy in the courthouse.
At six, Chris dinnersarrived as usual from an
outside cafe. Brought over on tray by waiter
named Ed Morrell-a young man who was to
earn a brief hour of glory, long prison term,
and write the book already noted. The sheriffs
brother admitted Morrell-but he failed to list
the white napkin that covered Chris dinner
In flash the two men with drawn guns
forced the solitary jailer to open the doors.
In less time still they were running for team
that stood hitched in a dark side street. Close
to this rig stood John D. Morgan, Fresnos
police chief, chatting with a friend. Suddenly
the chief was looking down Morrells gun barrel
while his own gun was taken from him. Then
things moved in a rush.
While the iter-turned-bandit covered Nor
gan's friend the chief heroically sprang upon
him and pnoned the gunman's arms Chris
Evans vast beard poked itself out of the dark
ness. A gun barked in the night Morgan
wounded, went to the ground The horses, mad
dened by the gun blast, tore out their halter and
galloped wildly up the street.
A little later the fleeing outlaws held up a
news delivery boy took his rig, and Evans was
off to the mountains and the wide open spaces
once more. So again San Joaquin boiled with
excitement. Again the sheriffs and the posses
rode the trails and combed the passes.
Then one day walked into the office of
Sheriff Kay in Vsalia. Chris Evans he said
and Ed Morrell were resting at the farm with
his family. The sheriff threw ring of steel
around the Evans homestead. He exchanged
written notes with Chris. The warrior of the
San Joaquin marched out on his front stoop
and struck his colors with all the dignity of
a general in defeat.
The rival chieftains who fought the battle Of
Stone Corral amid a hail of flying lead, and
before whose guns many men had fallen, were
to die on beds of ease, far from the deadly
rattle of rife-fire
George E. Gard went on to many more ex-
poits of daring and duty. He passed away
after long span of peaceful days, loaded with
honors. His name CLEANS high in the hall of
fame-aong with other fearless officers who
drew guns on the desperadoes of the Old West
Chris Evans due to failing health, was re-
leased from Folsom State Prison after II years
United with his family, the aging Chris
passed six peaceful years in remote town of
Oregon before he died