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Updated: June 20, 2025
What hindered him from taking the horse instead of the mule? It is a question I have never been able to answer to this day. I can only account for the fellow's preference for the mule on the score of downright honesty, or the most perverse stupidity. I made overtures for another guide. I applied to the Boniface of Socorro, but without success. He knew no mozo who would undertake the journey.
Therefore is the end written thus: Came to Jim Webster's home in Socorro a week later a babbler from San Marcial, who told a tale: "There was a man by the name of Texas Rankin came down to San Marcial last week an' went gunnin' for Buck Reible. Quickest thing you ever saw. Buck peppered him so fast you couldn't count; an' I'm told Texas wasn't no slouch with a gun, either."
Knowing Texas less intimately, the sheriff might have been misled by this crude sentiment; but the sheriff's fingers only drew more closely around the ivory handle of his .45. And there came a glint of humor into his eyes. "I ain't sayin' you would, Texas. But as sheriff of Socorro County I ain't takin' any chances. I wanted to talk to you, an' I knew if I had your gun I'd feel easier."
"Which means that you didn't want me to have a chance," complained Texas glumly. "Socorro's always been meaner'n " "'T ain't Socorro's fault," interrupted the sheriff with a sudden coldness; "you've been cuttin' didoes in Socorro for so long a time that you've disgraced yourself. You've gambled an' shot yourself into disfavor with the élite.
"Don't you know it's Sunday?" I asked Tom Osby. "I hadn't noticed it," said he. "Well, it is," said Dan Anderson. "You come here, and tell me what time the stage gets in from Socorro." "I ain't no alminack," said Tom Osby, "and I ain't no astrollyger." "He's loco, Tom," said I. "Well, I reckon so.
He had volunteered; and as I learnt that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro, I was fain to take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not at all like his appearance; but I found, on reaching Socorro, that what I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great was their dread of the Jornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches.
I remembered hearing of a spring, the Ojo del Muerto, that was said to lie westward of the trail. Sometimes there was water in the spring. On other occasions travellers had reached it only to find the fountain dried up, and leave their bones upon its banks. So ran the tales in Socorro. I headed my horse westward. I would seek the spring, and, should I fail to find it, push on to the river.
The Old Cattleman had just thrown down his paper; the half-light of the waning sun was a bit too dim for his eyes of seventy years. "Whenever I beholds a seegyar," said the old fellow, as he puffed voluminously at the principe I passed over, "I thinks of what that witness says in the murder trial at Socorro.
Now, if he'll only run when he's blind, why, we can skin them Socorro people till it seems like a shame. "Well, right then we all felt money in our pockets. We seemed most too good to be out ridin' sign, or pullin' old cows out of mudholes. 'You leave all that to me, says Doc. 'By the time I've worked on this patient's nerve centres for a while, I'll make a new horse out of him.
They was waggin' along with it when I trails into Socorro that time, an' I merely sa'nters over to the co't that a-way to hear what's goin' on. The jedge is sorter gettin' in on the play while I'm listenin'. "'What was the last words of this yere gent who's killed? asks the jedge of this witness.
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