That night we caught a passenger train and beat it one hundred miles to Childress, Tex., where we were put off.
But not to stay long. An emigrant, who was moving his household effects to the Indian Territory, allowed us to get in the car where his furniture was and carried us over two hundred miles to Dalhart, Tex., landing there late the next day.
I parted with White at Dalhart. He had changed his mind about going to Roswell, and now wanted to go to Denver, Colo.
Two hours after he had caught the Denver train I was safely hid in a coke car on an El Paso freight train.
I had no trouble in catching the train at Dalhart, for just as it pulled out a rough fight took place on the depot platform, both parties using firearms, which served momentarily to take attention from me. It's doubtful though whether I'd have been bothered in Dalhart anyway, for it is one of those rough little Western towns 'way up in the Texas Panhandle, in which "everything goes."
And, say, that was a funny fight, too. A big, rough-looking fellow, presumably a miner, had been cutting up too much fuss on the depot platform. The agent came out and asked him to be quiet, but instead of quieting him, he made matters worse. The big fellow began cursing everybody on the platform. A cop was called and in a moment there was a mix up. The cop pecked the fellow all over the head with his pistol, but the miner gamely came back at him with his own pistol, neither of them uttering a word. In a few minutes blood was streaming from both. The big fellow finally gave in and put up his gun.
"Come on now," said the cop, grabbing the man by the arm, and starting up the street.
I was wondering where the jail was, when to my surprise the cop released the man before they had gone a block.
The cop now came back to the depot, smiling.