"Did you ever make the search?" asked Clifford Warlow of his father, in an eager tone.
"No; certainly not," replied the colonel; "it would have been folly to suppose that the band of pilfering, murderous savages would have left anything valuable behind."
But the answer did not satisfy his son, who looked out toward the knoll where the Old Corral, with its broken walls, cast long shadows in the slanting sunbeams; and as the colonel proceeded with his story it was noticed, by more than one of the group, that Sabbath afternoon, that Clifford remained lost in thought, and his eyes roamed from the speaker out over the scene of that tragedy of bygone years.
"At the end of that mournful story," pursued the colonel, "I was pressed by Roger to remain with him until the next vessel passed; but I declined, thanking him, and telling him that Mary was waiting for me on the banks of the Missouri, and I could tarry no longer than a few brief hours, until the craft would sail. Then, as we stood on the ship, whither he had accompanied me, I told him to remain in the cabin for a moment until I could return. Then going to the captain, I asked him for the money which I had deposited with him.
"The fifty thousand dollars was carried into the room where Roger was waiting, and when the sailors had retired, I said, in answer to his look of inquiry, that I was prepared to execute the compact which we entered into at Los Angeles, to be 'pards,' and divide profit and loss; and I tendered him there on the spot twenty-five thousand dollars, which was one-half of my savings in the mines. Roger would not hear to the proposition; he scouted the idea of 'robbing me of my hard earnings,' and all my pleadings were in vain,—he was obdurate.
"I reminded him how I owed my life to his care and kindness; but my entreaties all were unavailing, as he would only ridicule the offer, saying that he had now more than enough for an old bachelor. So I finally desisted, but told him that should he ever need assistance or the services of a friend, to call on me, for I felt a debt of gratitude which I could never repay him.
"I smile even yet to think how I blushed when I showed him Mary's picture; and while he was looking with undisguised admiration at the miniature of sister Amy, I told him how she had never ceased to regret his sad fate, and that in her last letter, which I handed him, she had written that she still vaguely hoped he might some time return; that he may have escaped—'such things sometimes do occur—and she could yet thank him for his care and tenderness to her brother.' When the dear fellow beamed with such delight, I proceeded to say how delighted she and my mother would be to have him make us a long visit soon, which he readily promised to do within the year. As he still held the picture of my beautiful sister, and seemed so reluctant to surrender it, I ignored it entirely or pretended to do so, and as we proceeded with our talk, I saw, with half an eye, that he furtively slipped it into his pocket, at which I was so gratified, I had to pinch myself to keep from dancing a jig of delight.
"It was hard indeed to part with Roger, and not before he again promised to visit me within a year did I say farewell; then we were again sailing out on our homeward voyage. We tarried but a short time on the Isthmus of Panama; for, in fact, I had but an indifferent opinion of that little neck of land, made up, it seemed, of snakes, centipedes, and bad smells. Whew! it makes me faint, even yet, to remember how those nasty, vile, old swamps radiated their bad odors! There had just been an earthquake to roil up the concentrated filth which was packed away in those slimy bayous, and as every whiff of wind came loaded with its own peculiar stench, the variety became so wearying that I grew at length tired of the 'nasal panorama,' and vainly yearned for the friendly precincts of a glue factory.
"It always seemed to me that Nature had aimed to make a sea of the isthmus, but had taken the flux or cholera, and left her work but half completed."