"You must be dreaming, Butch'," I exclaimed angrily. "The thieving scoundrel doesn't dare do it."
"Doesn't he?" asked Arnold, with a bitter smile. "Why! he isn't even one of Uncle Sam's blue-coats!"
Arnold then explained to me how the other Ranger had learned that this plan had actually been decided upon, and gave me the names of some of our more timidly loyal fellow-citizens, who had been induced by the agent to guarantee him their support. What was there for us to do? This fellow actually represented our respected Uncle! He had probably called for the assistance of the regulars stationed in the vicinity of Susanville. Little doubt, perhaps, existed in our minds that our boys could have whipped them with the help of their friends, who, I firmly believe, would have turned out in mass, at such a call as we might have made. But this would have been insurrection, or treason, or something of the sort. I could see nothing left for us to do, but to grin and bear it. That was a natural necessity.
But somehow or other, on that night the matter was removed from our hands, as well as that of the Indian agent aforesaid. While we were all sleeping the sound slumber of law-abiding citizens of the United States, a party of masked men overpowered the jailer, and broke into the prison.
On the next morning, a fine tree which stood at the side of Albert Smith's dwelling-house bore a new kind of fruit. The red-skins who had murdered Hattie Pierson and her parents were dangling from its branches. They had paid for their crime with its legitimate penalty.
It was a sound and vigorous specimen of frontier justice.
Suspicion pointed its finger at many of my fellow-citizens, possibly, myself included. The Indian agent was furious. But the perpetrators of this act of justice, outside of law, kept their own counsel. Up to the present, as I have reason to know, suspicion has failed to obtain positive proof of the hands that hung the five Pah-ute assassins.
This volume is now drawing to a close, as in 1869 I quitted that portion of the country in which I had so long been residing. Nevertheless, in the preceding year, one more bloody act occurred which it may be necessary to record. Hiram Partridge and Vesper Coburn were at this period keeping the station at Deep Hole Springs, to which my pilgrimage in the winter of 1861 with lame Tom Bear may be remembered by any one who has not shrunken from my company up to the present time. Hiram was a cousin of John Partridge, and had once been a partner with me in working my claim at the mines on the Humboldt. Vesper Coburn was an old schoolfellow and playmate of mine, when we were no more than children. Consequently, I no sooner heard of their murder than I determined, were it within my power, to avenge it.
Previous to this, the organization of the Buckskin Rangers had been broken up.