Year: 1872

man dead. Mangas Colorado lost sixty
warriors. Had the last wounded wretch
who died with his last cartridge e-papcr
between his teeth lived an hour longer,
he might himself have told the story
which the trail told for him. On the
evening of the third day, the troop of
dragoons which came through the pass
from the other side found him yet
warm. The garrulous scout will yet
show you, with more of superstition
than fact, the dim trail of the coach
wheels in the turf of the steep hill side.
He will tell you how they overturned
the vehicle, and dragged the dead
mules together for barricade, and Law
there through the tortures Of seventy
hours, wounded, thirsty, dying and
dead, still fighting. And below You in
the canon, trodden by no passing feet,
is the lonely and rock. piled grave OF
the men who redeemed their lives by
their deaths, upon which each traveller
casts q stone, until it has grown into =
monument.


The tangled web men weave for de-
ception is cut by overreaching fate
with but stroke. The story of the
gamblers wild rave backward toward
the double allurement of love and gold.
frightened by all the sounds which dis
turb dreariness and darkness in the
wilderness, was never told. The cum
ming man had indeed succeeded in rid
ding himself of those from whom he
had obtained his wealth. He had in
his mind place of congenial rest, and
that night, by the garden wall, the Dona
Ana had agreed to accompany him be-
yond the Rio Grandc. When he saw
the familiar town unchanged afar
off in the afternoon, he
rode the animal that had carried
him so far, into the chapparal, and
coolly cut itethreat. He fingered un-
til nightfall, and then crept cautiously
through the street. But there was no
Dona in the garden, no light in the win.
dow. He whistled and clapped his
hands, and still she did not come
Then, weary and anxious, he crept into
q shadow across the way. and sat and
watched and waited. You may watch
and wait, Mr.. James Matkin you may
torture your tired body with endless
wakefulness but to you neither love
nor gold will ever come again. You
may outwit men. but the Spanish wo-
mans heart is colder and harder than
even your own. She has the doub
looms


And when morning came again, and
the last crnmb from his pocket of pro-
visions had been consumed, and he
woke from short and oomfortless
sleep. he would fain have begged a
piece of bread. As it grew light, he
flew again to the fields, and gladly ate
the small sour cheese laborer gave
him. There was something more than
the actual circumstances of his case
which mado him afraid; a sense Of
something impending and unseen add.
ed to his cowardice. But the woman
and tho gold, the torturing thoughts of
them drove him almost to the verv
madness of uncertainty and anxiety.
Urged at last by that beckonine fin
ger Of evil fate which men call despera-
ton. he crept timidiy back to the town
in the late afternoon. As he came
nearer, he saw crowd gathered around
men who stood yet at their horses
heads, and as they listened the women
walled and tho men looked terror
stricken or astonished. It was the
story of the fight in the canon, and as
he caught its meaning, even then his
anxious mind gathered CLEAN of sun
shine from the reflection that he had
not been there.


But as he listened, q woman pointed
toward him, and her eyes glittered like
a basilisk's with wickedness as she
shouted, 81 know where is the traitorl
It is he, he who left his comrades to
die! He is the murderer! He mur-
dered Mariana, and he robs his own
countrymeni" It was the Dona Ana.


nWhen morning dawned again a gen.
Il manly body hung and swayed in the
wind, upon tree by the river-bank.
But the priests had large gifts for the
repose of his soul and to this day
masses are said in the crumblinp
church for the release from purgatori.
al pains of Don Santiago Americana.
Ay: they have even forgotten his last
name in the passing years, and pray
for him by the generic title of all his
wandering, wicked race.