We met at Idaho Falls. When I say we, I mean our party, for we were surveyors, bent upon exploration of Uncle Sam’s possessions, and upon making an accurate map of the somewhat unknown country near Jackson’s Hole. We knew that it was a great land for game and fish and that it was the home of monster bands of elk, but we also knew that it had an unsavory reputation as the haunt for “bad” men of the hills. As I had come up on the train, certain placards in the stations showed that these same “bad” men were still around and had been operating at the expense of the Express Companies.
The placards read:
“$40,000 REWARD
For the Capture, Dead or Alive, of the Men who robbed the Union Pacific Express near Rawlins, Wyoming, on the Evening of June 4th.”
Then followed an inaccurate description of those who had been seen to enter the mail car, seize the box containing valuable mail and expressage, and decamp across the prairie with their plunder on their ponies’ backs.
At Pocatello, Idaho, I looked from the window and saw beneath me a light-haired, blue-eyed Swede. He was standing there nonchalantly, dressed in a corduroy suit, blue handkerchief knotted about his neck, and wide sombrero.
“That’s the sheriff,” said a man at my elbow.
“Where’s he bound?” I asked.
“Into the hills after the train robbers,” he answered. “He has a possé with him and they ought to be able to capture a few of the bandits who held up the Union Pacific Express.”
The train rolled on, but I always remembered that sturdy little figure, standing carelessly on the platform, in corduroys. In a week he had been ambushed, with his entire possé, and two had escaped out of the eleven. The little sheriff was buried in the hills.