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The stranger took from his saddle bags a little leather case containing some half dozen phials. One, enwrapped in dark-blue paper, he held up to Concho. "This contains a preparation of silver." Concho's eyes sparkled, but he looked doubtingly at the stranger. "Get me some water in your pan." Concho emptied his water bottle in his prospecting pan and handed it to the stranger.
A thousand tiny blades, nestling in the crevices of rocks, nurtured in storms and rocked by the trade winds, stretched their wan and feeble arms toward Him; but Concho the strong, Concho the brave, Concho the light-hearted spake not nor stirred. There was persistent neighing on the summit. Concho's horse wanted his breakfast.
He would have a talk with Young Pete when he returned and try to show him that his recent attitude toward Gary militated against the Concho's unprinted motto: "The fewer quarrels the more beef." Halfway across the mesa there was what was known as "The Pit "; a circular hole in the plain; rock-walled, some forty or fifty yards in diameter and as many yards deep.
There can be little doubt the coroner's jury of Fresno would have returned a verdict of "death from alcoholism," as the result of their inquest into the cause of Concho's death, had not Dr. Guild fought nobly in support of the law and his own convictions. A majority of the jury objected to there being any inquest at all.
The cowboy, while posing as friend and adviser, was in reality working out a subtle plan of his own, a plan of which Corliss had not the slightest inkling. "And the Concho's makin' good," said Fadeaway, helping himself to a drink. He shoved the bottle toward Corliss. "Take a little 'Forget-it, Billy. That's her! Here's to what's yours!" They drank together.
Don't be alarmed, you will not be interfered with, for here is murder added to robbery." "Murder?" "Yes," said the Doctor, excitedly, "I'll take my oath on any inquest that this man was strangled to death. He was surprised while asleep. Look here." He pointed to the revolver still in Concho's stiffening hand, which the murdered man had instantly cocked, but could not use in the struggle.
The grotesque extravagance of life, of fruit and vegetables, in California was inconsistent with infinitesimal doses. In Concho's previous illness the doctor had given him a dozen 4 grain quinine powders. The following day the grateful Mexican walked into the Doctor's office cured.
Suddenly Pedro flung his serape over the sleeper's head, and then threw his powerful frame and tremendous weight full upon Concho's upturned face, while his strong arms clasped the blanket-pinioned limbs of his victim. There was a momentary upheaval, a spasm, and a struggle; but the tightly-rolled blanket clung to the unfortunate man like cerements.
He got medicine of you last night. This comes of your d d heroic practice." But the Doctor was too much occupied to heed the speaker's raillery. He had peered into Concho's protuberant eye, opened his mouth, and gazed at the swollen tongue, and then suddenly rose to his feet. "Tear down those notices, boys, but keep them. Put up your own.
It was a steep trail leading over the Monterey Coast Range. Concho was very tired, Concho was very dusty, Concho was very much disgusted. To Concho's mind there was but one relief for these insurmountable difficulties, and that lay in a leathern bottle slung over the machillas of his saddle. Concho raised the bottle to his lips, took a long draught, made a wry face, and ejaculated: "Carajo!"
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