“Brigham,” I said in Spanish, “es la mano o el navajo?” [Is it to be hand, or knife?]
Brigham was proud of his Spanish; it was his elegant accomplishment, and this was a good scene. Grasping my hand cordially, he said, “La mano.” Like a true frontiersman, he felt in a minute the grandeur of the joke. There was, if I may so vulgarly express myself, an Indian-uity in it which appealed to his deepest feelings. There was a silence for several minutes, which he broke by exclaiming—
“I’ve driven waggons now this twelve years on the frontier, but I never heard before of tryin’ to stop the waggon by shootin’ at the driver.”
There was another long silent pause, when he resumed—
“I wish to God there was a gulch (ravine) between here and the fort! I’d upset this crowd into it d---d quick!”
That evening I took leave of Brigham. I drank healths with him in whisky, and shook hands, and said—
“I did a very foolish and reckless thing to-day, Brigham, when I shot at you, and I am sorry for it, and I beg your pardon. Here is a dagger which I have had for twenty-five years. I carried it all over Europe. I have nothing better to give you; please take it. And when you stick a Greaser (Mexican) with it, as I expect you will do some day, then think of me.”
The tears rose to his eyes, and he departed. I never met him again, but “well I wot” he ever had kindly remembrance of me. We were to be guests of General Custer at the fort, and I was rather shy of meeting the castellan after firing at his driver! But he greeted me with a hearty burst of laughter, and said—
“Mr. Leland, you have the most original way of ringing a bell when you want to call a carriage that I ever heard of.”
As for Hassard, when he witnessed my parting with Brigham, he said—