It is the hand of fate.
During the hours of waiting, a certain freedom, induced by copious
draughts of fiery Bourbon, caused the old foreman to injudiciously
"Hurrah for Jeff Davis." He gave free vent to his peculiar Southern
opinions.
A sudden quarrel with a stranger results in a quick resort to
weapons. Benumbed with age and whiskey, the old trapper is shot
while tugging at his heavy "Colt."
Before the smoke cleared away the stranger was far away. Dashing
off, he spurred his horse at full speed into the chaparral. No one
dared, no one cared, to follow a desperate man riding for his life.
Hardin orders every attention to the sufferer. Old "Kaintuck" is
going out alone on the dark river.
Hardin, steeled to scenes like this, by an exciting life, blesses
this opportune relief. "Kaintuck" is off his hands forever. Before
the Judge leaves, a rude examination by a justice precedes the
simple obsequies of the dead ranger.
One more red mound by the wayside. A few pencilled words on a shingle
mark the grave, soon to be trampled down by the feet of cattle and
horses. So, one by one, many of the old pioneers leave the theatre
of their aimless lives.
The Judge, happy at heart, bears a grave face.
Pages:
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385