“‘I allow that we’ll have our trouble, if at all, in the cañon four miles ahead. Now just put your blanket over your lap and hold your pistol under it. Keep a bright look-out, and if we strike ’em, just have your wits about you, and be ready to fire after I do.’ Soon we rolled off again, and I saw him lean back for awhile and then sit upright, and keep his eye fixed on the road. The horses were good; we soon approached the cañon, and the suspense became almost unbearable. I could not help thinking about our chances in the case of attack. Just then—I remember that I was looking at a group of cedars—the stage stopped, and, as if conjured up by the hand of a magician, three men on horseback appeared on our side, two close to us, one behind. I seemed to comprehend the whole situation in the twinkling of an eye; the figures—the levelled barrels—the major sitting before me.
“‘Throw up your hands, —— —— you!’ They were reckless enough to wear no masks—the speaker lowered his head to look in. Heavens! shall I ever forget that scene? On my part there was a startling recognition—on the major’s there must have been the same, for never have I seen a human face so transformed, and it added an almost demoniacal force to the action, which all passed in a flash. The terror of the sudden start, the throwing out of the left arm, the frightened glare of the eyes, may have been the product of rare dramatic power; but there was something far more terribly real in his wild cry,
“‘Great God! who is that behind you?’ The robbers instinctively turned their heads. Crack!—crack! The major’s right arm, rigid as iron, held the smoking weapon, as two riderless horses galloped off, and I mechanically fired at the third man. Then my friend laid his revolver down, and put his hand to his forehead. We drove on a short distance, and then made one of the frightened Mexicans hold the horses, and the driver and I hurried back. It was with a sharp shudder, and a vivid realization that the forebodings of earlier days had come only too true, that I saw my old school-mate lying dead in the dusty road. And then I saw one of those strange phenomena of the occurrence of which there is ample scientific evidence. Gentlemen, I assure you that there had been mutual recognition, and the terror of it was in those dead eyes.
“We drove back to Santa Fé almost at a gallop, the major sitting like a statue in his seat, and never speaking. As we entered the plaza and stopped before the old palace a crowd gathered, and I whispered to an army officer to take my poor friend to headquarters, while I attended to the needful formalities. I can see the scene before my eyes this moment: the motley gathering of Americans and Mexicans, with some uniforms among them; the driver eagerly talking—the hostlers taking the horses’ heads. The United States Marshal and Commissioner came out of their offices, and I told them the story. The marshal stopped me for a moment after the first ten words, and sent for his two deputies and three horses. Then he lighted a cigar and offered me one as I went on with my brief narrative. The deputies came up, the marshal went to his office for his arms, and examined the percussion-caps as he asked me a few questions. Then they all three shook hands with me and galloped down the narrow street. They were fierce pursuers, and when I saw the chief deputy that evening, he told me that the third man was in the jail.
“‘I know ’em all well,’ he added, ‘and two more ungodly ruffians than the dead men never cheated the gallows. I’ve been after that black-haired one a long time for a matter in Wyoming’; and a wolfish look came for a moment over his pleasant face. ‘I knew where to find the third man. He’s a mean cur, and gave in without the show of a fight. To be sure, you plugged him pretty bad in the arm.’
“When the marshal had gone to his office the commissioner and I walked to headquarters and found the major (whom the surgeon had induced to drink a composing draught) sitting in a chair, leaning his head upon his hand. He rose as we approached. ‘Sam,’ said he to the commissioner, ‘the Lord delivered him into my hands! It was his will.’
“He started again the next morning, and as the stage turned the corner he waved his hand to me, and then put it to his head once again in that sad, weary way of his. Urged by the spirit of unrest which had seized upon him, he joined the prospectors at Leadville, exposed himself recklessly, and died of pneumonia in three weeks.
“Strangely enough, the news recently came that old Mr. W—— was never seen after taking a steamer at Vienna to go down the Danube. That is the reason that I have felt at liberty to tell the story. They say the way of the transgressor is hard; but in this case it seems to me that there is a good deal to be said about the ways of those against whom he transgressed. Perhaps many of you have come across curious things in your lives, but nothing much stranger than what you have just heard.”
And to this statement no one took exception.