"Reminding Roger that the vessel sailed at four P. M., and my stay therefore was limited, I begged him to tell me the particulars of his happy escape, and when we were comfortably seated on the easy-chairs in the secluded court, he told briefly how he, with several others, clung to the capsized boat, and had been rescued by a passing vessel, bound southward. On reaching Acapulco he had called at the American consulate, but found the consul prostrated with yellow-fever, and (as Roger had passed through an attack of that dread scourge at New Orleans a few years previous to this) he had volunteered to nurse the stricken officer, who slowly recovered from the fearful malady.
"While that grateful invalid was convalescing, Roger had been intrusted with the accumulated business of the post. Having discharged the duties devolving on him to the satisfaction of his employer, that gentleman had deputized him as vice-consul, and then returned to the States.
"Finally the consul resigned, and Roger, on his recommendation, was appointed to the office as his successor, meantime receiving a hint from the home government to make himself as agreeable as possible to the natives.
"'Which you see, George,' said he with a merry smile, 'meant to acquire a taste for "garlic and capsicum."'
"Then, at his request, I related my experience; how I had searched in vain for him along the coast; had gone to the mines and made my 'pile,' and on embarking for home had learned of the rescue of the crew and passengers of the Lapwing; the long days of suspense that had followed, and my impatience to learn something of his fate. I did not omit telling how narrowly he escaped a sound flogging at my hands after I had been kept waiting so long, which caused him great merriment.
"During our brief conversation I had been conscious of an undercurrent of burning anxiety to learn the fate of Bruce Walraven and his wife. The suspense and uncertainty which had haunted me for two long years—the mystery of their fate—would now vanish forever, I knew; but I shrank with a strange foreboding from asking the truth which my heart had so long been vainly seeking. My dry lips and parched tongue could only feebly articulate as I begged Roger to tell me the sequel of that terrible tragedy at the Old Corral.
"With a look of pain on his handsome face, he said, in a faltering voice:—
"'I was journeying along on the Santa Fe Trail from Independence, Missouri, to California. Our large train had been delayed at Council Grove by a rumor that the Cheyennes were on the war-path; but nothing having been seen of the marauders, we started out, after a few days, trusting to our numbers for defense, and when we arrived at the Stone Corral, on the bank of the Cottonwood, a scene of revolting horror met our startled sight—a scene that will live forever in my memory.
"'The stone walls of the corral had been hurled down, and near the side of the stream were the charred and crisped remains of at least fifty human victims, mingled with the irons of the wagons, which evidently had been fired and the bodies thrown into the blaze.'
"'There were fifty-four persons in our train—How many bodies were found?' I asked, breathlessly.