Deceiving Durgan
By EPES W. SARGENT
1
us? THE HORSE THIEFBy Emerson Hough
YOU may see Dick Wilson almost any day at the Union
Stock Yards. Every morning he climbs up on the
fence near the car tracks, and sits looking out over
the tow -rig tea of heads and horns and manes. You
might mark the horseman in his attitude, for he sits the
fence astride, as though he feared it might begin to pitch.
As to his being a horsethief, ht does not look the part.
He wears a "bard hat," and not a wide sombrero. His
moustache is not dark nd sweeping, kit, on the contrary,
stubby and hay-colored. His eye is not dark, furtive, and
evasive; but ooen, blue, and direct. You would not call
him a horse-thief, if only for the reason that you would
feel sure that he might resent with a certain asperity any
suggestion to that effect.
Dick Wilson, in the language of the yards, "knows hi
business," and he is one of the most valued inspectors sta
tioned there in the interests of the Western live-stock asso
ciations. These men of the yards are deeply versed in oc
cult science. The buyer of hogs can place his hands upon
the fair round back of any given swine, and forthwith
tell yott from what State it came, and whether it was fed
upon corn or acorns. The inspector of horses ana cattle
can tell by a look at a roughened blotch of hair upon an
animal's hide from what far-off chain of foot-hills and
culees it has come; for the map of the West, and the
registered brands thereof, are written deeply upon his mind.
The brands are the signs manual of the -ledes and Per
sians ; and if there are chirographic irregularities upon the
parchment of a cow, who should be so quick to note andt
trace them as he who has in his time been Mede and Per
sian? Dick Wilson is now an inspector because he once
was horse-thief. He is also one because he is perfectly
honest Your Kentucky single-footer would be quite safe
with him ; and so would your wife and family, your gold,
your jewels. He would not steal, and every one knows
that he would not. That is one of the facts which give ad
ditional interest to his own story regarding certain inci
dents of his earlier life.
"The only way to do, when you are running off a bunch
of horses," said he, as he sat upon his fence one morning,
"is to start 'em good and' fast, an' keep 'em agoin'. You
ride just as far as you can, all that day an' all that night;
ride till you can't go any further. Then git up an' ndo
twenty miles further yet. The fellers that's a-followerm'
you will stop short of that last twenty miles, and that's
where you git your start. Of course, they've got a good
deal of interest in them horses, an' in you, but they ain't
got near as much as you have.
"The time me an' Jim Mulhally run off the bunch I was
tellin' about, we was broke, an' had to make a raise. We
figgcred around quite a while before we decided where to .
start in. Of course, you've got to know where to start,
and where you ullow to come out. In them days there
wasn't much wire fences an' you could ride most any
wheres. The grangers hadn't come in much yet.
"Now, nobody but a horse-thief would just take the first
bunch of Worses he came acrost. Of course, Jim an' me,
we didn't, want to take no horses from anybody that
needed them. But we finally located a new horse ranch
up in Montanny, run by a couple of tenderfeet from Bos
ton. Them fellers had a heap more horses than they
needed, an' money that was scandalous. They was breedin'
hackneys, or roadsters, or something of that sort, out in
Montanny, allowin' they could sell 'em plenty down East.
I reckon some of them horses was roadsters, too, before
we got through witli 'em.
"There was really four of us that started on this trip,
me an' Jim an' Bill Waters an' Willie Anderson. Of
course, we didn't act like fools, an' just go in there for a
few days, an' then disappear, through a act of Providence,
about the same time some' feller's horses was a-disap-pearin'
too. We was in that little town several weeks, an'
Jim, he got hisself put up to be elected county assessor.
We never did wait for the election, but we shore was
leadin' citizens while we stayed there.
"1 ilon't know how it is. hut some way it seems like a
feller may be square, an' all right, an' look like he has
plenty of sense, yet every once in a while he'll turn loose
' an' do some fool thing or other that'll spoil every single
chance he's got. It was a good deal that way with us.
Just along abiiut the time we allowed we'd make our start
on our trip, why, we fellers, all four of us, we got to
foolin' around down at the saloon one day, an' we wound
up by gettin' some elevated, right when we'd ort to been
sober as judges, every one of us.
"They was a sort of theayter just started there in that
town, an' the people was mighty proud of this here theay
ter, an' had just got in a right strong actor outfit for to
open up the place. Thesu here folks, they had just come
into town, an' they was a-goin' to start up that very night.
It was us four leadin' citizens that kep the openin' from
coniin' off, an' I don't think we done right. Really, it was
mostly the fault of Jim. lie allowed he was assessor, or
was due to be right soon, an' so he had some privileges.
He allowed it would be about right for us to go up buck
of the stage an' git the clothes of them actor folks, they
not bavin' come down to the theayter yet that night for
to begin actin'. We done so.
"I suppose maybe it was all right for Jim to dress up in
them clothes, biit I thought at the time he looked right
singular as he rid down the street in the moonlight. We
other fellers didn't dress up, but we each tied a bunch of
them fancy clothes behind our saddles, some men's clothes,
an' maybe some women's. We wasn't very particular.
"We all rid out in the country a little ways, an' come
together to sort of rigger it over. Jim he said that if we
was goin' to run off a bunch of horses, we might as well
begin that night as any time, for we never would be fixed
up any better than we was then, lie said we could go dis
guised. I reckon maybe he'd read about such things some
where; or it might have been just one of his jokes. He
said he didn't believe they'd elect him assessor now, any
how. They ain't so particular out there as they are here;
but 1 never did think a county assessor, even in a cow town,
ort to ride down the public street with a sort of gauze
frill stiekin' out around his saddle, an' a pair o' imitation
wings growin' out m his back. 'Look at me,' says Jim;
'I'm Cupid. An' allow I'm about the d dest best Cupid
that ever hit this range.' That ain't no way for a assessor
to act, even allowin' Cupid ort to wear long-shanked spurs.
"Well, we rounded up the bunch we was after, some
where long about midnight. They was JI4 head in all,
though some of 'em was marcs an' colts we didn't have
time to cut out. We headed 'em south, an' away we went,
a-jumpin' an' arlyin'. You talk about cavalry! I jolly,
I can see that now !" Diik half leaned forward and his
hand gripped the fence rail.
"It was right bright moonlight when wo started, an' we
could see the whole bunch clear as day. Off on our right
was the big mountains, standin' up white an' sort of solemn-like.
You know how them mountains makes a feller
feel. Why, a feller couldn't do a low-down thing while
the mountains was a-keepin' tab on him I We was just
east of the foot-hills, in a wide sort of valley, an' the way
we laid 011110 go was right down that valley, south of
the Bear Paws, an' on across to the Bighorn Basin, where
we thought we knew about what to do with our stock.
We was in a hurry, of course, an' we had plenty to keep
us busy. Willie an' Bill they kep 'em coniin' from behind,
an' Jim an' me buiiihed 'cm close an' kep 'em straightened
out in front.
"The sight of the dust risin' in the moonlight, an' the
sound of the feet of so many horses, put me in mind of
a stampede of cows. Every once in a while I could hear
Willie a a' Bill give a yell, an' then Jim would answer, an'
I would see him edge a little further front on the point at
his end of the herd. could always see him easy, on ac
count o' the light clothes he had on, lie come over to me
durin' the night, an' he says to me. Tress where you see
my white wings shine amid the thick of war!' Then he
laughed. He was a funny sort of fellow; but he shore
was a strai)',ht-up rider.
"I'm tellin' you, we only hit the trail In the high places
that night Aiong about daybreak the horses began to tire
a little. Willie an' Bill wanted to turn out an' sleep a
while, but me an' Jim knew that wouldn't do. We all
roped fresh horses an' changed saddles, an' kep the bunch
goin' till noon. Some of the colts had dropped out before
that, an' a good many of the mares was hard to handle,
but we must have had near two hundred head left We
kep' pushin' 'em on, fast as they could go, for we was
afraid some of them folks back tu the town might be
lookin' for their candidate for assessor, an' we knew
they'd morn'n likely be touchy about our breakin' up the
snow, we aiunt top till night, then we rested about a
hour, on a little creek bottom, where they was some feed.
Jim was still stiekin' to his actor clothes. He said he liked
em. They don't hamper the fore-movemcut o' my manly
form,' says he.
"AH night we kep' movin' though we was all pretty tired
by now. The feller up there did foller us, we heard after
wards, but they never got beyond our first camp. We
rid all the next niornin', too, till we come to a big basin
that used to be called Squaw Flats.
"The last time we was in there, three years before,
there wasn't a granger within a thousand miles of there;
but now, what do you think? Some fool land company or
other had planted a colony of Norwegians in there. An'
blame me, if they hadn't put up houses an' started ranches ;
an' right at the time we struck in there, they was a-holdin'
some sort of a doin's they called a hay festival. I don't
understand all about them foreign customs, but them
folks, they had several loads of hay drawed up in line,
an' they probable elected the best-lookin' gal in the outfit
for to be the hay queen, or somethin' of that sort. They
was a mighty homely-lookin' set of women, anyhow.
"We left Willie an' Bill a ways back to hold our herd in
some coulees out of sight, an' Jim an' me we rid in among
the foreigners to see what was goin' on. Jim was riled at
seein' this granger outfit in there. He rid up alongside
the men folks an' allowed that he was the only legitimate
queen o' the May then an' there present on the Squaw Plats.
T wouldn't say this if I didn't have the wings to back it'
says he, 'but I shorely must insist I'm a heap lovelier 'n
any one o' these moharries here.' An' he gives his wings
a flip, to make 'em show up good. ' They wasn't one of
them fellers denied what he said. They looked some sus
picious at his clothes. I reckon they didn't understand our
customs any more'n we did their'n. One of them men
folks, a old-Iookin' sort of feller, with pink whiskers, he
says to his old woman, says he, 'Mary, I tank way badder
go hack to Duloott'
"We tried to sell them fellers some horses, but they
wouldn't buy none, an' they didn't seem to understand
nothin'.. We got out of 'em at last that they had come in
from tlie new railroad ; which was shore news to us. We
hadn't heard of any railroad up in there. It was that line
up from Newbraska. That settled us. "By Jinks,' says
Jim, 'I'll bet a hundred dollars they'll telegraph from
Bear Paw down the trail, an' we got to cross this here
new road!' An' that was just what did happen, too.
"It was a low-down thing to do, that telegraphin', an'
that was one of the reasons we left that country. We see
a honest man couldn't hardly make a livin' there any
more. t
"We, that is, me an' Jim, we rid back from the hay
festival to where Willie an' Bill was a-holdin' the herd.
We knew it was a rather ticklish place we was in, an'
it was goin' to take hard ridin' to git out. Bill he was
sort of sick, an near played our,, and Willie he allowed
he couldn't leave Bill. They was sort of partners, same
as me an' Jim. We saw we'd have to split up here, for
Bill couldn't ride so hard as we'd likely have to. We
hadn't tiggured 011 ever goin much farther than right
where we was then. Jitn fixed it up. He said :
"I'll tell yon how to do this. These Swedes haven't
seen you boys yet at nil. Now, we'll start the herd full pelt
and cross the flat right by their d d hay oufit. You an'
Bill, you come on after us, a-chasin' us and a-shootin', like
you was tryin' to catch us. When you get to the Swedes,
you pull up, an' tell 'em we are two horse-thieves that's
run olf a big bunch from up country, an' that you've been
follerin' us for three days. It'll take that outfit about ten
hours to git it through their heads, an that'll give us some
chance. You two fellers stop here, then, and do just the
best you can. As for Cupid, he ain't never a-goin' to
SU"We done it that way. We come out on to the flat a
whoopin' an' a-goin', Willie an' Bill behind, a-ahootin' and
yellin', like they was cray to catch up with us. We shore
stampeded the hay festival. Jim an' me didn't stop to
learn how It all come out. but we learned later that Willie
and Bill took the first tram as soon as they found the new
railroad, an got out to Omaha all right
"Jim an' me, we traveled a day an night from Squaw
Flats, an' then we crossed the new railroad in the night,
an' headed southwest, square for the Red Desert o Wyo ra
in'. Then it was a good deal like a dream, for that was
the aw fullest tide I ever had in all my life. Our horses
died all atong the trailjrne after another, an' all they
could do was to walk, we kep' 'em goin' all we could,
ridin' among them an' shootin' down the ones we saw
was goin' to drop soon. We lived on horse meat for days,
for we hadn't anything else to eat When we struck good
feed and water for the stock we hadn't over forty head
left, an' we didn't care whether school kep' or not. Jim
was wore down to skin and bones, an' his face was cracked
and split with the alkali, the same as mine, an' he couldn't
hardly talk some days; but he never did weaken, an' he
stood watch fair when it come his turn, an wouldn't have
gone to sleep if he'd a-dted standin'. An' all along the
ride he stuck to his actor clothes, partly because he didn't
have any others unless I give him some of mine, but
mostly because of devilment. I let him have both saddle
blankets at night, for he said there wasn't much warmth
in his wings. 'The feller that built those here wings
didn't gauge 'em for this altitood, I reckon,' says he.
"We knew we had to do business right soon if we ever
did at all, for what with this telegraph keepin' us movin'
so far, our stock was so foot-sore an' wore down that i
couldn't travel no further. We kep on the best we coulo,
but we wasn't averagin' ten mile a day, an' a-losin' a horse
night about every mile, you might say.
"We was now a long step from Montanny, an' we finally
allowed we'd head for the Green River settlements, where
the Mormons was thinkin' we could maybe ship our stock
by the 'U. P.' from there where nobody knowed us, an'
nobody couldn't have heard of us. It was a long pull, an'
mighty hard 'on our property, but we finally got in on the
Green River.
"The day we was to strike the railroad at the Mormon
settlements, we met a feller ridin', out a little way from
the railroad station, an' we stopped a while to pass the
time o' day. He looked right careful at our outfit, and
finally Jim asked him who he was.
"'Oh, you be?' says Jim.
" 'Yep,' says he. "Who are you?'
"'Well,' says Jim, a-throwin' one leg acrost his saddle,
'I started out as Cupid; but I allowed, if we hadn't of met
you, I'd a-rid into that there town and seen if I couldn't
pass for the departed sperrit of Joseph Smith.'
"The sherf he laughed. 'I know who you are,' said he.
" 'How?' said Jim.
'"Story come out from the Swede settlements on the
Squaw Flats that the Angel Gabriel had come through
there in a hurry headed south. Description was some like
your'n. It was telegrafted all aver. Do you know what
you two fellers done?'
'"No. Why?' says Jim.
"'Why! half that colony went back home. Country
seemed a little swift for them, I reckon,' says the shert
" 'Maybe so says Jim.
"'Is this all the horses you've got left?" asked the sherf,
an' we told him yet. He asked us of it was true we'd
come all the way from Montanny since the first of July,
an' we told him yes. He set down then an' sort of re
flected some 'Boys, says he, at last, 'I expect you'd
better leave the stock in here. I'll have 'em took care of
till their feet and legs gets 3 chance to grow out, an' that'll
be time enough to talk about sendin' 'em back up the
range. But you two fellers, if I was you, I believe I'd
just take the train out to-night You needn't mention
tneetin' me.'
"'You're a white man, friend,' said Jim, 'If you are a
sherf.' So we both shook hands with him. T come mighty
nigh bein' a assessor,' said Jim; so he told how that was.
I thought the sherf would die a-laughin' at Jim. It was
him that got Jim some clothes. 'I'll bet a thousand dol
lars,' says the sherf, 'that you're the first cow-puncher that
ever rid acrost the Red Desert in pink chaps and with
speckled wings a-growin' out of his shoulders!' And I
reckon like enough that's so.
"But wasn't that a pore round-up for a whole season's
work ? We didn't git more'n forty head through, an" they
wouldn't of brought four dollars a head. That's a fact"
Apparently regarding his Story closed, the inspector
started to climb down from the fence, but upon expostula
tion tarried long enough to tell something further of the
fate of Jim.
"Why, Jim," said he,, "he went up into the Black Hills
country, not long after 'that, an' he stayed there quite a
while, punchin' cows for the Open A Six outfit. One day
he was in to town at the railroad, an' he run acrost a
outfit of movers who was comin' in through there with a,
(Continued on pir .1)
4 pvURGAN again?" laughod Tres
I ton, as he came up the steps.
"Again?" repeated Colville.
"'Again?' premises some in
terruption. Durgan has never ceased
to be a thorn in my flesh since I mbved
in here."
"Lawyers do not seem to be of much
use in this case," chuckled Treston, as
he shook hands. "Is Edith inside?"
"In the library," replied Stephen Sol
ville. "But look here, Jim, do you sup
pose that you can do anything? I've,
spent th'-'.isands through Curtis to oust
Durgan, and it does no good. You
spoke as if you might be better at the
game."
"What's in it?" asked Treston.
"Fifty thousand," was the prompt re
sponse. I
"That's not the fee Curtis Baird was
working for," suggested Treston. "1
should be worth as much."
For a moment Colvilla hesitated. It
had been his ambition ever since Edith
had been born to unite the Baird and
Colville families and fortunes through
the girl's marriage to Curtis Baird. The
two fathers had been chums when they
were both young men, and there had
existed a half promise that the union
should create a closer bond. Curtis
Baird was only too willing to fall in
with the scheme, but Jim Treston had
always stood in his way since he had
first come to Milton. Edith had many
modern ideas of matrimony.
When Treston was still a boy in
knickerbockers, he and Edith Colville
and Curtis Baird had been playfellows,
with no thoughts of the rivalry that
was to come later on. Then Curtis had
taken a law course, while Jim had gone
into business after leaving college.
When Baird returned to establish a
practice, the old friendship had been
ruptured beyond repair and the two
men had become open rivals.
Baird's first and most remunerative
case had been the Durgan matter.
Durgan was a runty little Irishman
who occupied a corner of the Colville
estate. At one time, when there were
more farms and not estates, his plot had
been a part of the adjoining farm,
Then a road had been cut through,
leaving a narrow strip of land, and Col
ville had negotiated for the property.
Trouble had arisen with the owner over
the price, and while Colville was still
negotiating in his usual diplomatic
fashion, Durgan stepped in, paid the
price, and one morning, strolling down
the road to reopen the argument, Col
ville found men digging the foundation
for a house on a corner of the lot
Durgan was sitting on the fence di
recting the job, and a violent dislike
sprang up between the two men. Both
were stubborn and quick tempered, and
the interview that had commenced as a
polite inquiry wound up with the work
men separating the two land owners.
Colville left vowing vengeance, and
Durgan resumed his seat on the fence
planning to make things uncomfortable
for his neighbor.
That he was possessed of a fertile
imagination was soon made apparent.
Soon the broad sweep of turf on the
Colville property led directly to the Dur
gan pig stye, the orchard terminated in
a most inartistic view of the Durgan
chicken runs, and a noisome stable soon
backed against the Colville garage.
Then the richer man had sought the
law, and finding it lacking, was willing
to compromise. Durgan blandly an
nounced that he would sell the ten acres
for a million dollars and not a penny
less. Colville bid up to $50,000, and then
took refuge in the law again.
Durgan was summoned on every pos
sible pretext, but Colville lost in every
suit, though he did bring about a ma
terial improvement in the home life of
the Durgan pigs and chickens.
The latest move was the erection of
a small refreshment booth on a corner
of the lot nearest the Colville grounds,
where Durgan announced his intention
of setting up a refreshment stand for
the benefit of automobiles, and it was
this that finally induced Colville to
promise Treston to consent to his mar
riage if he could outwit Durgan.
'Jim .entered the library, and Edith
glanced up. "I suppose you saw papa?"
she asked as she greeted him. "I came
in here to escape his. observations. He's
the dearest daddy in the world, but
when he commences to talk about Dur
gan, it is time for me to retire."
"I hope that it will be Durgan who
'goes into retirement," he smiled. "I
have been retained on the case."
"Since when were you admitted to the
bar?" she demanded. "Has the bottom
fallen out of real estate?"
"I took my first degree in law when
Pete Jackson traded jack-knives,
'sight unseen,' and worked off a handle
and the stub of two blades on me. I
have been studying practical law ever
since. In a word, Durgan is shrewd, but
I mean to outwit him."
"I'm afraid you will never succeed,"
she said. "Curtis Baird is a clever law
yer, but he was as helpless in the ear
lier peace negotiations as he has been
Th court proceedings."
"I'm working for the same fee," he
proclaimed, "and with such an incen
tive I sirriply must succeed."
"I hope that you do," she said, softly,
as the pink of her cheeks deepened to
a rose color.
"I can't fail while you are the prize,"
he announced confidently. "As a pre
liminary, I must have a quarrel with
you and your father. I am going to be
kicked off your lawn."
"What 00 you mean?" she asked,
curiously. "Daddy has always liked you
well enough. Why should there be a
quarrel?"
"It's part of the scheme," he ex
plained. "It came to me in a flash as I
was talking with your father in the
hall. I don't want to explain anything
yet, but when I leave I must be run off
the grounds."
An hour later, Pat Durgan observed
with interest the exit of Jim Treston.
The choleric Colville had the young man
by the collar of his coat, and as they
reached the gate he administered a
parting "kick, in accordance with instruc
tions. But in his excitement, he admin
istered a heavier propulsion than had
been contemplated, and it was with no
simulated expression of pain that Tres
ton limped down the road.
As he passed, Durgan hailed him.
"That man sure do be th' very devil,
he said, sympathetically. "It's me that
should know in all these years. Wont
you sit down and rest a minute. Mr.
Treston. It'll be ais:r after a bit
Painfully Treston climbed" the fence
and took a seat beside the old man.
"I hope that you won't say anything
about this in the village," he said. "I
should not like to have it known."
"Niver a word," was the assurance.
"Sure, it's bad enough to have th' ould
terror act like that without all th' byes "
kiddin' ye. It's to meself I'll kape it"
"You arc to blame, you know,"
laughed Treston. "This newest torment
of yours put him in a violent humor."
"So he don't like it, don't he?"
chuckled Durgan. "Well, he's only him
self to thank. Since that young snip of
a lawyer feller made thim raise ma
taxes, I've got to be doin' somethin' to
make th' money."
"I thought the chickens were profit
able?" suggested Jim.
The old man smiled.
"Divvil a bit," he explained. "What I
make on the eggs I lose on th' roost
era." "How's that?" demanded Treston.
Durgan dropped off the fence.
"Come with me till I show ye,"' he
offered.
They passed beyond the little house
where Durgan made his home. Back
of the grounds the long hen-runs ex
tended to the river. Through the net
ting Treston could see that there were
some three hundred roosters to about
half as many hens.
"t make something on the chicks I
sell," explained Durgan, "bnt the eggs
just about pay for the feed."
He looked up expectantly, but Tres
ton's face only expressed surprise; not
the appreciation which Durgan antici
pated. He waited a moment anxiously,
then came a little closer.
"Th' hens can't crow," he whispered.
"Now d'ye see?"
Treston broke into a roar of laughter.
It was clear enough! The yard was
tenanted only by a sufficient number of
hens to pay the feed bills. The rest of
the chicks were the roosters of whose
crowing Colville had so often com
plained. Treston had often wondered
why the yard should have been so
much noisier than other poultry farms.
Now for the first time he appreciated
the refinements of Durgan's revenge.
Durgan, glowing with pride, led the
way to the house, where he produced a
bottle and two glasses, and they pledged
friendship and mutual revenge. After
that it was seldom that a day passed
when Treston did not drop in for a
chat, and he grew to have an honest
liking for the shrewd old man.
That Durgan had been a miner and a
prospector in his younger days Jim
had always known, but in the chats
that ensued he learned that the old
man had been in almost every country
on the globe. He fascinated Jim with
his stories of adventure, related with
the Unconcern of one to whom adven
tures was an every-day affair.
It wes several weeks before Jim was
ready to spring his scheme. Out in
Montana he had a ranch on which was
an abandoned prospect hole. He had
sent word to his agent to have the hole
salted, and, when the time was ripe,
he induced Durgan to go out and send
him a report of the mine.
Durgan was willing to oblige a friend,
so he closed up the little shanty for a
time and took train for the West. In
two weeks his glowing report came
back. Traces had been found and the
property would be worth developing.
Treston promptly wrote back, offering
to exchange the Montana land for the
Durgan strip.
"It's giving you the best of the
game," he wrote, determining after all
was over to write Durgan the truth
and make things financially right, "but
' I am anxious to have that strip. If you
want to exchange even, go ahead."
Back came reply from Durgan, offer-
iug a bonus, but Treston would not
hear of it, and finally the flat ex- ,
change was made and the deeds were
signed and recorded. That night there
was jubilation at the Colville home to
which Baird was not invited, and, before
he left, Treston slipped on Edith's finger
the solitaire that would soon be replaced
by a plain gold band that should be
the outward sign of his victory.
Treston's conscience troubled him,
and it was with a guilty face that some
days before the wedding he stood in
his private office waiting to receive Dur
gan. The little man was resplendent in a
suit of black broadcloth, a glossy hat
and a modest diamond prominent in his
scarf. Apparently there was no enmity
in his heart, for he sprang forward to '
greet Treston with a smile and a hearty
handclasp.
"They tell me that you're goin' to be
married, Jaimsey," he cried. "Whin
Mat Cassidy wrote me that, I said to
my si If that I'd stop off an' wish you
well."
"You knew?" asked Treston in sur
prise. "To be sure," was the laughing re
sponse. "I could see that there . was
somethin' between you and Miss Col
ville bless her sweet face.' y ,
"But you don't know how I won her,
Pat," Jim began, shamefacedly.
"I do that," declared Durgan. "Sure
it was because you got th' roosters an'
th' pigs off me place where that fresh
lawyer couldn't, an' showed yourself to
be a smarter man than your father-in-law
that's goin' to be."
"But. about that property?" persisted
Treston nervously. Durgan clapped him
on the back.
"Don't I know that, too !" he shouted.
"Why, lad, I've dug holes in the ground . .
more often than you've made mini pies."
"Yes, but this hole," interrupted Tres
ton. "This hole," gurgled Durgan, with de
light, "was a salted mine. Why, Jaim
sey, I saw it th' minute I clapped eyes
on it. That skinny felly you've got out
there just got a lot of good quartz an'
dumped it in th' hole."
"Isn't that the way it's done?" asked
Treston.
(Continued ult lm;;e 3) ,