“That suits me,” replied Tex, “let’s go and take a drink.” And thus their enmity ended in making them fast friends. Tex was killed by being thrown from a wild horse, in Walla Walla, in the year 1865.
It was to this brother that Boone Helm, when he found all hope of escape at an end, applied for assistance. True to the fraternal instinct, Tex promptly responded, and soon made his appearance in Florence, with a heavy purse. He soon satisfied himself that unless the testimony could be suppressed, the trial must result in conviction; and to this object he immediately addressed himself. Some of the witnesses had left the country. Tex succeeded in buying up all that remained, except one. He wanted an extravagant sum. Tex finally agreed to pay it, if he would at once leave the country and never return. The extortionist accepted the conditions. Fixing his cold, gray eye on him, Tex, as he handed him the money, said: “Now, remember, if you do not fulfil the last condition of the bargain, you will have me to meet.”
Shylock knew the character of the man too well to trifle with him.
The day of trial came, no witnesses appeared, the case was dismissed, and the red-handed murderer and cannibal was again at liberty to prowl for fresh victims. The truehearted brother who had purchased his life, as soon as he was free, took him kindly by the hand, and in a voice choked with emotion, said to him,
“Now, Boone, if you want to work and make an honest living, go down to Boise with me. I have plenty of mining ground, and you can do well for yourself:—but if you must fight, and nothing else will do you, I will give you an outfit to go to Texas, where you can join the Confederate armies, and do something for your country.”
Boone accompanied his brother to Boise, and for a while engaged in mining, but it was not a congenial occupation. He soon signified his desire to go to Texas, and Old Tex, true to his promise, furnished him clothing, a horse, and a well-filled purse. He set out in quest of new adventures, but, as we shall see hereafter, did not go to Texas.
CHAPTER XI
DEATH OF CHARLEY HARPER
We return now to Charley Harper, whom we left at Colville on the Upper Columbia, a fugitive from the Vigilantes of Florence. Fear had exercised a healthful restraint upon his conduct, and during the brief period that had elapsed since his flight, though by no means a model citizen, he had been guilty of no offences of an aggravated character. He was, however, known to be a favorite with the roughs, a gambler, a drunkard, and a man of desperate resources. Good men shunned and watched him. Had there been a Vigilante organization in existence then, he would have received its closest observation. But in a condition of society where all classes intermingled, he contrived to slip along without molestation.
New Year’s Day brought with it the customary ball, to which all were invited. The preparations were on a scale commensurate with the wishes and means of the miners, who generally, upon such occasions, spare no expense while their money holds out. Everybody in the town was in attendance, Charley Harper among the number. Attracted at an early hour of the evening by the sparkling eyes and voluptuous person of a half-breed woman, he devoted to her his entire attention, dancing with her often, and bestowing upon her many unmistakable civilities. As the evening wore on, Charley became boisterous, swaggering, and noisy. His inamorata declined his further attentions, and refused his hand for a dance. Incensed to madness by this act, crazy with liquor, he knocked her down, and beat and kicked her in a most inhuman manner after she had been prostrated. This roused the indignation of the by-standers, and Charley, seeing vengeance in their demonstrations, fled in terror before them. They pursued him through the streets, he retreating and firing upon them until he had emptied his revolver. The pursuit ended in his capture, a rope was procured, and a few moments afterwards the lifeless form of the wretched desperado was swinging in the cold night wind from a limb of the tree nearest the place of his arrest. Thus ended the life of one who, among his own associates, bore the name of being the meanest scoundrel of their gang.
After the affray which terminated in the death of Cherokee Bob and Willoughby, the Vigilantes of Florence met, passed congratulatory resolutions, and renewed their measures for the effective suppression of crime in their midst. Their Executive Committee was instructed to warn all suspicious characters to leave the place immediately,—and they determined to visit with condign punishment those who disobeyed. The leading men among the offenders had fled in anticipation of some public demonstration, so that those who remained were few and powerless. Among these was a tall, lean, cadaverous individual, derisively called “Fat Jack,” who, like Happy Harry, belonged to that class of negative scoundrels, whose love for crime is confined by fear to petty thefts. Fat Jack obeyed the order to leave, and went to Walla Walla. Brooding over his expulsion with increasing indignation, and encouraged in the belief that he could return without molestation, after a short period he went back to Florence, muttering by the way violent threats against those who had banished him. Two months had elapsed since his hegira. It was late in the afternoon of a cold, stormy, March day when he entered the town. At his first appearance he was promptly waited upon by the members of the Executive Committee, who ordered him to retrace his steps at once, or he would be hanged. Hard as this order may seem to the casual reader, to have neglected it would have endangered the efficiency of the committee and opened a way for a return of the roughs to their old haunts.