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Updated: May 21, 2025
All at once the hammering strokes ceased and the rattle of rifle fire died out in a desultory spatter as stray bullets impinged against the stout adobe wall. Jim Baggott from his perch upon a heap of chairs before the window called out in amazement: "They've drawn back clear across the road! Reckon they've given it up as a bad job at last! The dawn's almost here." "Don't fool yourself!"
Honest Dan, late taxi'-driver and amateur detective, purpled with embarrassment as he rose and shook hands, but his eyes, too, were dancing. Ben nodded to Henry Bailey, his ranch neighbor and the only other occupant of the bar, and then turned again to Jim Baggott. "Now perhaps you'll tell me what in thunder the racket is about! I'd have come to meet Mr.
Baggott for the first time had noted the inert form stretched upon the couch. "Dad's hit," Billie responded simply. "Is he bad?" The foreman's tone was hushed. "I'm afraid so. He's dreadfully cold; he's he's bleeding internally, I think. Perhaps, if a surgeon comes in time " "A what?" Baggott exploded. "Gosh almighty, where's a surgeon coming from?" "From the barracks," explained Billie, naïvely.
Halliwell-Phillipps, who printed eleven copies of this piece, that it is anterior to Shakespeare's play. Much of the play is taken up with Greene and Baggott; but the playwright has chiefly exerted himself in representing the murder of Woodstock at Calais.
Jim Baggott fairly pranced from behind the bar, his round face shining with excitement. "Here's a gentleman from New York, old friend of yours." Ben Hallock turned to find himself facing an elderly personage with an impressively pointed gray beard and keen eyes behind gold-rimmed pince-nez. "Jumping Jehosaphet! If it ain't Perry Larkin!" Ben pumped the stranger's hand energetically.
Kearn Thode mounted his pinto and rode out of the courtyard of the Baggott Hotel and down the Calle Rivera under a seething tropic sun.
The stranger tasted his liquor and replaced the glass with a fastidious shudder upon the bar. "He is not here now?" Baggott shook his head. "You may have heard that Alvarez El Negrito, they call him paid us a little visit a few days ago." He added a profane and heartfelt abjuration of the bandit. "Most of us were corraled in the Blue Chip, and Geoff, he was shot down along with a lot of others."
"They drifted at last into Topaz Gulch, Nevada, where Ralph obtained a position as time-keeper at the Yellow Streak gold mine, and where a little daughter was born to them, whom they named 'Willa'." Billie started, and her lips opened, but no words came. Jim Baggott, too, was silent, his jaw agape and honest eyes almost popping from their sockets.
Baggott was the chief executor of the late gambler and mightily puffed up with the pride and dignity of his office. Gentleman Geoff's private papers were few and carefully indited, their instructions unmistakably clear.
North's impressive car before the hotel, while Jim Baggott, in an ancient silk hat and bibulously primed for the occasion, read an ungrammatical but fervent valediction. Billie could only throw both hands out to them, laughing and sobbing in one breath as the car moved off down a lane of solidly packed humanity and disappeared in a whirl of dust. "'S on the house!"
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