“Later again, as the Union Pacific train, on which I was a passenger, stopped at the Green River station, I saw on the platform, evidently waiting to join us, a father and daughter. The former was a fine specimen of the better class of plainsmen—six feet two, and of powerful build—his eyes large and blue, his long hair and full beard light-colored, and his expression kindness itself. The young girl was about eighteen, slender and delicate, and altogether charming—one of those beautiful, tender, clinging young creatures sometimes found on the frontier, like the delicate wild flowers in the cañons. They were going to Chicago; and having been commended to Major G—— by some mutual acquaintances, I passed much time in his company, and we became excellent friends. He had been a widower for a number of years, and was deeply devoted to his pretty Anita, who in her turn seemed to adore him. I could not help thinking that she was ill-fitted to meet the cares of life, and that there was a look in her lovely eyes that suggested a rare capacity for suffering. She had never been east of the Missouri before, and the major told me that after a short stay in Chicago, they were going to live on a ranch which he had bought in the Wet Mountain Valley. He had been a noted hunter and Indian fighter in the West, and bore the scars of more than one struggle with wild beast and wilder man. I remained with them one day in Chicago, and remember Anita’s childish delight in a bouquet of flowers which I gave her, when I called at the hotel to say good-bye, and her waving her handkerchief to me as I drove off to the station, and she stood on the balcony leaning on her father’s shoulder.
“Chance brought me, within six or eight months, to the region south of the Arkansas, and I took a trip on the Wet Mountains with an old Mexican called Manuel. One day it occurred to me that we could not be far from my friend’s location; so I asked Manuel if we could not cross the range and go down into the valley, and if he knew where Major G—— lived.
“‘Oh si, señor!’ he quickly replied, ‘we easy come over the mountain and to the Rancho San José, where live the major. Oh, it is a place so beautiful! the valley which the señor will see when we pass the Sierra and go down the cañon.’ ‘And the major, and his daughter, are they well?’ I asked. ‘The major, yes,’ said Manuel; ‘but the señorita’—and his voice changed—‘she is not well. The señor does not then know—but ah! how could he?—that she have so great trouble.’
“Much surprised and shocked, I gradually elicited from him a narration of what had occurred after the father and daughter took up their abode in the valley. It seemed that a young man, bound ostensibly on a hunting trip, once asked for a night’s lodging at the ranch, and was evidently struck by the beauty of Anita; that he had returned again and again, and finally expressed his intention of taking up a homestead in the vicinity. Anita seemed attracted by him from the first. They were finally betrothed, and the major had the comfort of knowing that they would remain near him. He had apparently given his full confidence to the young man, and talked freely to him of his affairs; and notably, on one occasion, of his intention to keep quite a large sum of money in the house for two days, contrary to his usual custom, but for the purpose of paying for a mine which he had bought. The next morning the money was gone! The young man was never seen again.
“I heard this tale with great regret, and said to myself that the poor girl would never bear such a blow. When I asked Manuel about her condition, he broke into distressed and almost incoherent utterances about la pobrecita (the poor little one), for whom might the Madre de Dios intercede. I began to dread the visit to the ranch, and would have turned back but for a desire to offer my sympathies.
“When we entered the corral the sun was just sinking behind the Sangre de Cristo Range, and flooding the valley with light. The major came out when he heard our horses, and, recognizing me, at once bade us welcome. When I saw his poor daughter I was shocked beyond measure. She lay on a sofa looking at the western mountains. She knew me and gave me her poor little hand, so thin that it seemed almost transparent. Her face was pallid, and deep purple rings were under her eyes. I said a few commonplace words of sympathy, and then turned away. The major followed me into the house, and, coming up and taking my offered hand, said, ‘They call it quick consumption. I know better than that—it is a broken heart!’ His grasp tightened painfully on my hand. ‘My God!’ he cried, ‘how can I bear it!’ The scene was painful in the extreme. I found Manuel and told him that we must go on, and that he had best lead the horses outside of the corral, where I would join him. The major’s life-long instincts of hospitality flashed out in a momentary protest at my departure, but he did not press me to stay. I knew that he had kind neighbors, and the ranch seemed no place for us. I went to say farewell to the dying girl, but finding her lying with closed eyes and folded hands, I dared not disturb her, although I knew that I saw her for the last time. Major G—— walked mechanically to the gate, and bade us good-bye. I saw the tears in old Manuel’s eyes as we mounted and rode some distance in silence. Two weeks after this, coming from Fort Garland, I bought a Denver paper from the newsboy on the train, and saw that I had rightly judged of the poor child’s inability to bear a rude shock, for I read that she had ‘entered into rest.’
“Now, gentlemen, I am afraid that you will think I am spinning a sensational yarn, but it is only a few months since, just as we are sitting here, I was sitting with a party of gentlemen at the door of the fonda at the corner of the plaza in Santa Fé. We were admiring the gorgeous sunset, and listening to the band playing under the trees, when the ‘buckboard’ of the Transportation Company arrived from the South. It was with a start that I rose to salute, in the only passenger, my poor friend Major G——. He had changed sadly; his hair had grown white, and his cheeks were sunken. Then he had a habit of pressing his hand to his forehead, which gave one a vivid impression of despair.
“He greeted me warmly, as of old, and mentioned that he had come from Mesilla, and was going on to Fort Garland in the morning, but he said little more at first, and I dreaded any recurrence to the past. In the evening I induced him to take a cigar, and to drink a little from my flask. Soon he seemed restored to a temporary animation, and after asking me if I proposed accompanying him on his journey, and expressing gratification at my willingness so to do, he went on as follows:
“‘I have heard something which leads me to think that the road agents are going to try to rob the stage, which will have some treasure freight. The only passengers besides us will be a couple of greasers, who can’t help us if they would. You know the boys say that the agents always have things their own way. Now, as I feel at present, I’m not inclined to give up without a try. I don’t want to ring you in unless you are for it; but, with all the trouble I’ve had, a bullet more or less is of no account to me; but I have a notion,’ he continued, ‘that I can block their game. It was done once by an old pard of mine, and, if you say so, I’ll try it, and you just follow my lead. Will you take the chances?’ I knew him to be a man of desperate courage and fertile in resource, and I assented. ‘What kind of shooting-iron have you?’ he asked. ‘Navy Colt? No, that’s good in its way; but I’ll lend you a self-cocker like mine. Mind and take at least a strong cup of coffee before we start; and now you’d better turn in.’
“In the morning we took our places in the coach, the major sitting on the front seat, and left-hand side; I sat opposite, and each had a silent Mexican next him. We drove without incident to the place where the horses were first changed; but, before we started again, my friend said to me,