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Updated: May 24, 2025
"It takes a heap of nagging to get old Pegleg fully worked up," said the fellows of the Fortieth that night,
Sharon Whipple yelled and Pegleg McCarron pounded the floor in applause. Spike merely shook his head once. "The kid's showing speed," he admitted, cordially. "If he just had something back of them punches!" "It was a daisy!" exclaimed Sharon. "My suffering stars, what a daisy!" "'Twas neatly placed!" said Pegleg. "I'm surprised at you!" said Sharon later to the panting apprentice.
Somebody at division head-quarters must have had an eye on the situation, for there came a letter from a trusted aide of the lieutenant-general to old "Pegleg" reminding him of the gratitude we all owed the young man's noble father, and bidding him lend a helping hand to Davies, and see that his life wasn't made a burden to him by his troop commander.
"She must have married him for his money," Wilbur heard himself saying in cold, cynical tones. The illumining thought had just come. That explained it. "Sure," agreed Sam. "Why wouldn't she?" Late that afternoon, in the humble gymnasium at the rear of Pegleg McCarron's, Spike Brennon emerged from a rally in which Wilbur Cowan had displayed unaccustomed spirit.
"It's bad enough to have Pegleg down, but think of having Devers up, even for a week." "I don't see what we can do, sir," was the reply. "The lieutenant-colonel of the Fortieth is on leave awaiting retirement, the major on General Sheridan's staff. Major Warren, of the Eleventh, is abroad, and Devers is the ranking captain." "Well, let it stand," said the general, after a while.
Old Pegleg seldom left his piazza now except to go to bed or dinner, and did not much care what was said or done around him so long as he was left in peace.
There was a new post commander at Scott when the first snows fell that winter, for honest Pegleg had retired and Leonard had a colonel after his own heart, and the Fortieth sang songs of praise when the campaign was over, and moved into quarters and renewed acquaintances with their families and "assurances" with the Eleventh when they happened to meet along the Union Pacific, and said they sorely missed them at the post, as probably they did, but the Eleventh didn't care to go back.
Down by the riverside was another saloon for that sort of thing, kept by Pegleg McCarron, who would sell whisky to any one that could buy, liked rough stuff and with his crutch would participate in it. When Herman decided that a customer was spending too much money for drink, that customer had to go to Pegleg's if he bought more.
There was Bordeaux, the grizzled old Frenchman, clad in ragged buckskin; Moses Harris; "Pegleg" Smith, whose habit of profanity was shocking; Miles Goodyear, fresh from captivity among the Blackfeet; and James Bridger. The latter had discovered Great Salt Lake twenty-five years before, and was especially vehement in his condemnation of the valley.
On that high seat, one hand grasping an iron railing at the side, sitting by grim-faced Starling Tucker in his battered hat, who drove carelessly with one hand and tugged at his long red moustache with the other, it was pleasantly appalling to reflect that he might be at any moment dashed to pieces on the road below; to remember that Starling himself, the daily associate of horses and a man of high adventure, had once fallen from this very seat and broken bones the most natural kind of accident, Starling averred, though gossip had blamed it on Pegleg McCarron's whisky.
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