The Lonesome Trail. John G. Neihardt

just because I’m going to hang.”

      And we rode on together.

      The next morning when we had saddled up, I said: “Narcisse, here is one of my six-shooters and some ammunition. There is the grub. If you travel west far enough, you will come at last to the gold country. Ever think of going to the gold country?”

      The man gasped and placed his hand to his head. “When did I have my cap off?” said he.

      “You have a good mule there,” continued I, evading his question. “You have grub, a gun and ammunition. Why don’t you go west?”

      “Why are you saying that?” he said.

      “Because,” I answered, “because I have seen both scars!”

      A light came into his eyes.

      “And you?” he questioned.

      “I?” said I; “well I, while conducting a prisoner southward, was attacked by Indians. The prisoner was killed while defending me with unusual bravery. I lost all my grub, one gun, some ammunition and a mule. I barely escaped with my life, and rode like the very devil to get to the next post. Go!”

      I pointed west. The man slowly fastened the grub sack on his mule, mounted, gave me a look which I have never forgotten, and rode west.

      I have never seen him since. As for me, I got into the next post that evening with a worn-out horse and a tale of calamity.