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"So I was noticin'; from the East, I reckon?" "Yes; I I came last night, and and really I am afraid I am actually homesick already. It it is even more more primitive than I supposed. Do do you live here at Ripley?" "Good Lord, no!" heartily, "though I reckon yer might not think my home wuz much better. I 'm the post-trader down at Fort Marcy, jist out o' Santa Fé.
And Cahill, who was listening to the wolf, unthinkingly nodded his head. The sergeant snorted in triumph. "Yah, I told you so!" he cried, "a man that's never been on the Bowery, and knows the call of the Whyo gang! The drinks are on you, Cahill." The post-trader did not raise his eyes, but drew a damp cloth up and down the counter, slowly and heavily, as a man sharpens a knife on a whetstone.
"If you need him," said the post-trader, closing his ledger, "you can offer him five more a month." "That'll not hold him." "Well, let him go. Have a cigar. The bishop is expected for Sunday, and I've got to see his room is fixed up for him." "The bishop!" said the foreman. "I've heard him highly spoken of." "You can hear him preach to-morrow. The bishop is a good man."
And, besides, they don't know how many more men the road agent may have behind him. I don't " A movement on the part of Miss Cahill caused him to pause abruptly. Miss Cahill had descended from her throne and was advancing to meet the post-trader, who came toward her from the exchange. "Lightfoot's squaw," he said. "Her baby's worse. She's sent for you."
Therefore, when Lieutenant Mason, who owned a racer, challenged me to a race, I immediately accepted. We were to run our horses a single dash of a half mile for five hundred dollars a side. Several of the officers, as well as Rube Wood, the post-trader, offered to make side bets with me. I took them up until I had my last cent on Tall Bull.
"Not an extremely popular route at present, I reckon. Mining, pardner?" "No; post-trader at Fort Marcy." "Oh, that's it," his eyebrows lifting slightly. "This Indian business is a bad job for you then." His eyes fell on his seatmate. "Well, if this is n't little Gonzales! You 've got a good ways from home." "Si, señor!" returned the Mexican brokenly. "I tink I not remem." "No, I reckon not.
He had meant to go and see what the new waiter-girl at the hotel looked like, but put this off promptly to attend the dance. This hospitality the Shoshone Indians were extending to some visiting Ute friends, and the neighborhood was assembled to watch the ring of painted naked savages. The post-trader looked after the galloping Lin. "What's he quitting his job for?" he asked the foreman.
It was thus with Major Murphy, who located as post-trader at the little frontier post known as Fort Stanton, which was founded by Captain Frank Stanton in 1854, in the Indian days. John Chisum located his Bosque Grande ranch about 1865, and Murphy came to Fort Stanton about 1866.
"Here's the Scotch and sodas, lieutenant," he panted. "I couldn't get 'em any sooner. The men wanted to take 'em off me to drink Miss Cahill's health." "So they shall," said Ranson. "Tell them to drink the canteen dry and charge it to me. What's a little thing like the regulations between friends? They have taught me my manners. Mr. Cahill," he called. The post-trader returned from the veranda.
These, with more than necessary care, he hid away upon the highest shelf of the shop, while from the lower shelves he snatched a rubber poncho and a red kerchief. For a moment, as he unbarred the door, the post-trader paused and cast a quick glance before and behind him, and then the door closed and there was silence.
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