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Buckley, president of the Stockmen's National a stout, elderly man, looking like a farmer dressed for Sunday heard Roy from his private office at the rear and called him. "Has Major Kingman come down to the bank yet?" he asked of the boy. "Yes, sir, he was just driving up as I left," said Roy. "I want you to take him a note. Put it into his own hands as soon as you get back." Mr.
The lieutenant went to the cabin to look out for the prisoners there, and found that the four men who had been detailed a guard were marching up and down the cabin in front of their charge, plainly determined that the steamer should not be captured again. "Boat from the Bellevite, sir," said one of the men on the quarter. "Where is the Bronx and her prize now, Kingman?" asked Christy.
I recall Washington Work, H. J. Kingman, A. J. Henderson, L. J. Hanchett, Jack Hays, Seth Bishop, Burr Blakeslee, Jim Tyler, who was the loudest laugher in the town, and as he lived at the Clifton House he was called "The Clifton House Calf." These and many others might be mentioned as typical good fellows of the mining days.
Then he went himself, and the mate had dropped upon him, while those from under the bales secured Bench and Kingman. Every sailor was fully instructed in regard to the part he was to have in the programme, and Christy had crawled forward to the point where he found the aperture in which Groomer, the mate, had been concealed.
Buckley sat down and began to write. Roy returned and handed to Major Kingman the envelope containing the note. The major read it, folded it, and slipped it into his vest pocket. He leaned back in his chair for a few moments as if he were meditating deeply, and then rose and went into the vault.
"Follow me, Bench and Kingman!" he shouted to the two men that remained on the forecastle. "Strike two bells, Landers," he added to the wheelman. Christy had drawn the cutlass he carried in his belt, and was ready, with the assistance of the two men he had called, to put down any insubordination that might have been manifested by the ship's company of the prize.
But, then, Turner was a Texan, an old friend of the bank's president, and had known Dorsey since he was a baby. While the examiner was counting the cash, Major Thomas B. Kingman known to every one as "Major Tom" the president of the First National, drove up to the side door with his old dun horse and buggy, and came inside.
As recently as August, 1908, in coming to the Canyon by rail, I met at Kingman, Arizona, a deputy sheriff by name of Ayres, who was one of my party taken by Galloway up the Glen Canyon. In the Fall of 1909, Mr. Galloway accompanied an Eastern capitalist, Mr. Julius Stone, of Columbus, Ohio, in boats of their own manufacture, through the Canyons, from Green River to Needles, California.
Which them two days of thirst terrorises me to sech degrees that for one plumb year tharafter, I never meets up with water when I don't drink a quart, an' act like I'm layin' in ag'in another parched spell. "Or I might relate how I stops over one night from Springer on my way to the Canadian at a Triangle-dot camp called Kingman.
In spite of his largeness of heart and sometimes unwise generosity toward his old friends, the bank had prospered, for Major Tom Kingman knew men as well as he knew cattle. Of late years the cattle business had known a depression, and the major's bank was one of the few whose losses had not been great. "And now," said the examiner, briskly, pulling out his watch, "the last thing is the loans.
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