to do. I walked over to the General Delivery window and inquired for my
mail. Not a line!

I then hurried to the telegraph office and asked if a message had been
received there about four hours previous from San Francisco addressed
to one William Anderson, and whether or not the message had been called
for by the person to whom it had been addressed. The operator replied
in the negative, so then I inquired whether or not there was a message
there for Jack Rand. No, was the reply again. I truly had never felt so
badly in my life, for after looking forward to this meeting for so long
a time, I had to be disappointed. I really did not know what to do, for
I had ridden all the way across the continent to meet my old friend,
and he had apparently gone back on me. I thought at least he would have
kept his pledge and written me of his delay, but, alas! not even that.

Anderson and I had planned to take a course in law at Leland Stanford
University which is located half a mile from Palo Alto, but after this
bitter disappointment, I did not care to stay, and especially after I
learned from the registrar of the University that I could only take up
two courses in law at that particular time of the semester.

I remained in Palo Alto some days, thinking perhaps that by some
miracle he might turn up later. But no such good fortune.

Later I returned to 'Frisco where I spent a month in trying to obtain
suitable employment. I did not have an over supply of cash capital, and
consequently, after a few fastidious parties, I found my cash on hand
sheet getting very short.

One morning I sat down on the side of my bed to count my little over,
and found that I was the possessor of five one dollar bills and a five
dollar note. Gee! but this looked pretty bad for me, and I began to
wonder what I was going to do when the money ran out. After finishing
my breakfast that morning I glanced over the "Help Wanted" columns and
my eye stopped on "Sailors wanted. Ships sailing for Australia, India,
China and the Orient. Apply Humboldt House." I felt that I would not
experience any trouble in securing a place on any one of the steamers
as I had with me an able-bodied seaman's certificate, which I had
earned plying up and down the South African coast.

In the afternoon I strolled down to the Humboldt House, situated in the
heart of the sailor quarter, and on making application to the booking
clerk of the office, I was not long in signing up for a voyage to
Sidney, Australia, and back by way of Hong Kong, China. The thought of
a trip through the East pleased me highly, so I walked down to where
the "Britisher" was docked and went aboard. I spent half an hour on
her and when leaving told the "bowswain" that I would be back the next
morning with my outfit.

The "Britisher" sailed the following afternoon, but it sailed without
one Jack Rand, for I actually would not have made the trip on that old
shell had they made me captain of her. Every hand on the boat was a
Chinaman with the exception of the Captain, First Officer, Engineer and
the "Bowswain." Those ugly looking Chinamen with their long pigtails
hanging down their bony backs, and keen edged knives stuck securely in
their belts did not look any too good to me.

The night I remember as well as if it was only yesterday. I left my
hotel shortly after supper and headed toward Golden Gate Avenue. It was
a damp night and I wanted to mingle with the people, hear the music
of the dance halls, and maybe trip the fantastic myself, for I was
homesick and lonely. My little pocket account was still decreasing,
and I really did not feel the toughness of the position I was playing
till that evening when I found my earthly belongings in the coin line
amounted to four dollars and fifty-five cents.

Three thousand miles away from home with a bad cold, four dollars and
fifty-five cents, hotel bill due, not a single friend or acquaintance
to turn for assistance. I strolled down Golden Gate Avenue with hands
dug deep in my pockets, coat collar turned up and hat pulled down over
my eyes, for it had just begun to drizzle rain and the breeze from the
sea was biting and penetrating. As I strolled along I saw on almost
every side big life-size placards, and pictures of Jimmie Boyles, the
Amateur Champion of the Pacific Coast, who was booked to fight that
night at the Dreamland Skating Rink.

Well, as I had gone through with almost all my money in the past week,
I thought I might as well spend the balance, so I planked down a dollar
and gained a general admission to the Dreamland where the fights were
to be pulled off that night. There were six round contests on the
programme and the big fight between Jimmie Boyles and whoever wished to
try him out would be the last one fought.

In 'Frisco at that time they only allowed them to go six rounds, and
that night there were some hot six rounders in the Dreamland. It was
the first time I had ever witnessed any of the fights in the West, and
I enjoyed seeing them pound each other, emphasis on the "pound each
other." When the first six fights had been completed the ring manager
stood on the platform and announced through a big megaphone that any
one who would come up and fight Jimmie Boyles, the amateur champion of
the Pacific coast, and stay in the ring with him the six rounds, that
a purse of one hundred dollars would be awarded. Jimmie stood proudly
leaning against the ropes, at the same time bowing to his admirers, as
the yeller made the announcement from all sides of the platform.

Several volunteered, but were ruled out on account of being classed
as professionals. For a while it looked as though they were not going
to be able to get Jimmie a fighting companion. As I stood there, I
thought, "Well, I am a darn long way from home and this chance looks
good to me, although I'm not much of a bruiser." Suddenly I raised my
hand above my head and yelled to the man on the platform that I would
fight his Jimmie Boyles. Those standing close to me turned and looked,
while the eyes of the whole audience fell my way. I pushed through
the excited mob of spectators and ascended to the platform, where I
introduced myself, "Jack Condon from Richmond, Va." I was not long in
establishing my amateurship, and after being introduced to the huge
assemblage, I repaired to the dressing room.

I was then weighing one hundred and seventy pounds stripped, and when
I walked out on that platform in regular fighting costume I felt like
a turkey nearing the axe. I appeared wrapped in a brown blanket and
took my seat in one corner, while Jimmie sat opposite me. A trainer sat
on either side, one rubbing my arms with alcohol, while the other was
saying, "Now, kid, don't git skeered, but hit the devil hard. You're
goin' to win, for I feel it in the dust. Ah, git out, what are all
these pretty muscles for if you can't lick that Jimmie over there with
only one hundred and thirty-five to hit yer with?"

The gong rang. I threw aside my robe and walked to the center of the
ring. I was so scared I could hardly breathe; there was a great big
lump in my throat and my knees were a bit shaky. Those knees of mine
did not get very weak till I got right up to that Jimmie and saw his
face. He had freckles, and I have always been afraid of a freckled face
man. They say they are mean and will fight like the devil; now I know
they are mean and also know that they will fight like hell.

We shook hands, and as I prepared to take my position and make a
grand stand show, he piled me one right square in the right eye. This
stunned me for a moment and I could see only stars. When I regained
self-control I was the maddest I have ever been in all my life. I
gritted my teeth and went at that one hundred and thirty-five pounder
as a buzz saw goes after a knotty log. He was apparently knotty and I
intended to cut some of them out. The gong sounded--end of the first
round. By this time my eye had swollen so badly I couldn't see from it
at all. Five more rounds!

During the second bout I hit that fellow a few good ones and I knocked
him down more than once with those big long railers, as they term them
back in North Carolina. Along about the fourth round I saw that he
was going to get the better of me and put me out of commission if I
didn't protect myself. Then I decided to keep away from him as much as
possible, and in the sixth round he was chasing me around the ring like
one rooster does another in the pit. Whenever he cornered me I would
clinch with him, and as a consequence the official would necessarily
consume some time in breaking us. I cared not how long it took to
separate us, for my game was a time killing one. I only wanted to last
the six rounds so I would be able to get my purse, for such was my only
salvation.

The very last of the sixth round he forced me to the ropes, and just
as the gong rang he drove me a straight from the right shoulder which
landed squarely on my eye. This blow sent me over the ropes of the
platform and I fell to the floor, twelve feet below. I remember
distinctly that terrific punch, but I do not remember having hit the
floor. The next morning I was barely able to see, for both eyes were
swollen dreadfully and my poor head was paining terribly. Two swollen
eyes and a big knot on the head was enough. On awakening my first
question was, "Did I win?"

"You sure did," replied one of the fellows in the training quarters,
for it was there I had spent the night. I secured my hundred, and two
days later I was on a Southern Pacific sleeper bound for my home back
in dear old North Carolina.

For several weeks after my return I waited and wondered what had
become of Anderson. He had failed to turn up at the appointed place,
at the appointed time, and he had even neglected to write me. I had
just about given him up for dead when one day I received a letter from
him informing me why he had not shown up on January 5th in Palo Alto,
and also explaining why he had not written or wired me as agreed. It
thoroughly vindicated him. There seemed to be some "hoodoo" about his
existence for having unusual things happen to him, and as a consequence
he was always doing the unexpected.

His letter read:

                         Pueblo, Colo.

     MY DEAR JACK:

     As I commence this letter, old man, I feel very much like a
     prisoner with an excellent case of circumstantial evidence against
     him, striving to vindicate himself, and at the same time knowing
     the task to be an extremely difficult one.

     Now, you have doubtless wondered why I didn't live up to the
     mutual agreement, didn't let you know immediately of anything
     which turned up to prevent me from doing so, and, strangest of
     all, why I haven't written you long before this.

     Now, Jack, I am going to try to explain, although it is a mighty
     hard thing to do on paper, but before I begin, I want to remind
     you that while you and I have peddled a goodly portion of the warm
     oxygen together, that I have always been "on the square" with you,
     as I trust you have with me: so don't think that I've taken this
     from one of last century's novels, for every word of it is gospel
     truth, so help me God!

     I will begin with the minor things leading up to the climax and
     grand finale, so that you can more fully comprehend it. You see,
     old man, I went back to Dakota with the purpose of earning money
     and saving it. I surely earned it with the sweat of my brow, as
     the "Good Book" says, but it was the old, old story. It slipped
     through my fingers. Well, I went from Arlington to Huron. Work
     then was beginning to get rather scarce, but I went to a boarding
     place, and by a straightforward story secured board in advance.
     Then, for a time, I managed to get just about enough work to
     liquidate my weekly board bills. Finally the thing petered out
     about altogether, but I was given credit for a week. During that
     week of hanging around I waxed loquacious, and revealed a little
     of my past history. That made it good for another week. Then I
     told them that I expected money from home, which I did. I then
     wrote for twenty-five dollars, which I received in company with a
     lengthy sermon, and paid fifteen dollars out for board, leaving me
     with a miserable little ten dollar bill.

     Now, in the good old halcyon days at the Academy we used to
     convert our language phonographs into roulette wheels, and in
     recreation hours--and not infrequently in study hours--gamble
     for requisitions. We agreed that all the fellows who should be
     "ousted" from the Academy should be paid cash, if winner, as the
     "reqs" would be useless to them.

     Our room was raided by upper class men one day, and the thing
     found out, but as the midshipman in charge was certain of
     "bilging" himself, he didn't report us, but simply gave us
     unofficial hell instead. Well, when the game was broken up, a
     certain Rogers of Cincinnati, Ohio, was in debt to yours truly to
     the extent of twenty-five dollars. I made a hurried departure from
     Annapolis, and furthermore I didn't care to mention such a then
     trifling thing to Rogers, as I had between five and six hundred
     dollars.

     Well, you know how we arranged it--went to Pittsburg, then to
     Chicago, and due principally to your good management, we never
     got to the stage where I had to ask for it. Every letter Hardin
     wrote me how he really believed Rogers meant to pay, and all that
     sort of thing. To make a long story brief, Rogers never was man
     enough to offer to close the little "debt of honor," and I was
     too proud to ask him. When leaving Huron, though, I wrote him
     a letter asking him to send it, in part or in full, to Omaha,
     Nebraska; I depended on his honor and started out. Went to Sioux
     City, Iowa, on a cattle pass and left most of my capital there.
     When I took an account of my coin, found that I possessed less
     than three dollars, and the fare to Omaha was three dollars and
     fifteen cents. I went to the Bureau of Information, and found that
     I could go to Blair, Neb., for amount on hand. Accordingly, I paid
     passage to Blair, trusting to luck to catch a freight train out of
     Blair, and I figured that even if this failed I could walk it, the
     distance being only twenty-four miles.

     Arriving at Blair, broke, I slept in the depot
     over-night--Christmas Eve--think of it! Woke up Christmas Day
     without a cent, and feeling like the wrath of God. Oh, yes, it
     was a merry, merry Christmas. Finding that no freight trains were
     running on account of holiday. I soliloquized, "Well, William B.
     Anderson, ex-midshipman, United States Navy, it's up to you to
     make the best of your way via 'the hoof' to Omaha, so get thee
     busy at once."

     I knew, or thought I knew, I would find a money order for
     twenty-five dollars there. Arrived in Omaha about dusk, footsore
     and weary, and went at once to the P. O., only to find to my
     intense anger and chagrin that it was "Closed on Account of
     Holiday."

     I marched on the double quick to a Western Union Telegraph office,
     and scribbled a lengthy telegram for funds. I was told that it
     would have to be "O. K.'d" by the manager before it could be
     sent Collect--so I waited three hours or thereabouts before that
     personage finally materialized. The long wait didn't tend to calm
     my general feelings of irascibility. I handed the form to him, and
     after half scrutinizing it, he told me that he couldn't pass on it
     and have the risk of its not making good at the other end, but if
     I would cut out about three-fourths of it, he would. Now, I knew
     that every single little word was absolutely necessary, and tried
     to reason with him, but to no end. Then all the bad, irascible,
     ruffled feelings that had accumulated within me for the last
     couple of days surged forth, and I read the riot act to him as it
     had never been read before. I never thought I was capable of such
     a supply of invective. It did no good, of course, and ended in my
     being shown the door by the uniformed attendant.

     I went to the Postal Telegraph with almost the identical result,
     so broke, but not in spirit, I walked the streets till morning,
     and then sat in a saloon till business opened up and I could get
     my bearings. I went to the Post Office as soon as it opened,
     asked for my mail, but received a brief "Nothing." I went to an
     employment agency and asked for a job in a restaurant, having
     had nothing to appease my hunger for more than a day. Told him
     I'd make good when I got paid. He wouldn't do business on those
     grounds, but said he had received a 'phone call for a man to beat
     carpets just for the day, and that if I wanted that, he wouldn't
     charge me anything. I wanted it all right. I reasoned, "Well,
     within two weeks I'll be attending college, but Jack and I did it
     once when we were up against it, so it's good enough for me now
     and nobody need ever know."

     I went to the address handed me, a private family of the middle
     class, and applied. A good looking young woman brought me a line
     and a couple of carpet beaters, and I smiled as I thought of the
     time you and I used to utilize them. At noon she showed me where
     to wash, invited me to lunch, and really treated me elegantly.
     She asked me my name, and a whole lot more, and then told me that
     she and her mother rather liked my looks, and wished I'd stay
     and sleep in the vacant house to which they intended moving, and
     help the men transfer the different articles from one house to
     another. I had intended staying the one day only, thus getting
     sufficient to send home for outfit and fare to Palo Alto, but she
     didn't understand my case, of course. She thought she was doing
     me a favor, and as she "looked awfully good to me," I stayed, and
     that's really the beginning of the story proper, the former part
     being merely prelude.

     At night the young woman's husband came home. He's head broker for
     one of the largest packing houses, and she told him about it. He
     was a little insignificant runt with a glass eye, and the tip of
     his olfactory organ betokened more than a speaking acquaintance
     with beverages of an alcoholic nature. He was pleasant at first,
     but he by no means approved of his wife's interest in me. She
     probably regarded me as a mere child, but I liked to think
     otherwise. He stayed at home the next day "to help move" of
     course. He made several significant remarks, such as, "Your hands
     don't look like those of a laboring man," "You say you're from
     Richmond, Va., but you haven't much Southern accent." "It's funny
     one with your control of languages, and apparent education should
     be beating carpets." I knew he wasn't saying this to peddle my
     good qualities to his pretty little spouse, the shrimp, so I at
     once suspected that he possessed a streak for amateur detective
     work.

     Well, I helped him move, and he watched me as a cat does a mouse,
     but I didn't blame him, as he had several articles of value among
     his stuff. We had most of the articles moved by night, but as
     things were strewn around in topsy-turvy fashion in the new house,
     he concluded to remain in the old apartments that night.

     He sent me after two keys, for the front and back doors of the new
     house, and said he would pay me and dismiss me when I returned.
     I went to the locksmith's and got the two keys, but--well, you
     know how careless and absent minded I am, and when I returned
     I'll be damned if I could find but one of them--I had lost the
     other. Then he as much as told me that I had hidden the key or
     given it to an accomplice, so that I could go over and unlock the
     door of the new house and help myself, and that it strengthened
     his convictions all along that I didn't work for a living. That
     sure made me hot under the collar, and I got eloquent and told
     him that his theories were preposterous in the extreme, and that
     I was well aware of the fact that I was no Hercules, but if it
     were not for the kind treatment of his wife, I'd thrash him right
     there. I got warm and excited and reached in my pocket for my
     handkerchief to wipe away the perspiration. That little fool must
     have misunderstood my purpose, for then, old man, honest Injun,
     cross my heart, he ran over to the dresser, took a loaded revolver
     from the drawer, and fired. The bullet went through the glass back
     of me with a racket capable of waking the dead. His wife fainted,
     I rushed him, and hit him a left hook that would have broken any
     punching machine manufactured.

     This sounds rather boastful, considering my slight build, but I
     was in a heat, and it meant a whole lot to me how hard I hit him.
     That cowardly whelp then let out a blood curdling yell, and went
     down, and I realized what a fix I was in. The shot and yell must
     have attracted the attention of passing pedestrians, for they all
     gathered in front of the house. Not wishing my name to be given
     so much publicity in an affair of that calibre, I took the bunch
     of letters in my inside pocket, went over to the range and threw
     them in, just as a cop appeared on the scene. Seeing the state
     of things, the cop hit me over the head with his nightstick, and
     after viewing at close range planets, heavenly satellites and
     other decorations of the firmament, I must have collapsed; when I
     revived, I had on a pair of handcuffs, and the little measly runt
     was concluding his one-sided story.

     Well, then, for the first time in my life, but not the last, as
     you will see later, I was arrested. Went up before the judge next
     A.M., and, to condense my story, the kernel of the judge's remarks
     to me was that I looked young and unlike a criminal, but as I had
     burned my letters, thereby admitting carrying a fictitious name,
     and was also in a strange town with no visible means of support,
     he would have to convict me of vagrancy, and concluded his remarks
     by saying that he hoped it would teach me a lesson. Thirty days!
     My God! don't attempt to imagine my feelings.

     Well, there's a whole lot more I could tell you, but that's the
     principal part, and improbable as it all sounds, that's the
     true story of the successive links of evidence which resolved
     themselves into the complete chain of circumstantial evidence
     which kept me away from Palo Alto. I had a crumpled postal in
     my pocket, and penciled on it "Don't condemn me, Jack, until
     you hear my story." and begged a negro to mail to you for me. I
     addressed it to you at Palo Alto, California, but I doubt if you
     ever received it, as when I got out a couple of weeks later, your
     letter awaited me at the Post Office, forwarded from Huron, and
     you didn't say anything about having received the postal card.

     Well, the judge visited me during my confinement, and drew out of
     me my real name and address, but none of my past history or future
     plans, and he at once surmised that I was some kid who had rambled
     from home and mother, so he wrote my father a lengthy letter, the
     tenor of which was that a boy claiming to be his son was confined
     in that city on a charge of vagrancy, and that while the boy was
     bright and intelligent, he was most assuredly on the wrong path of
     life. He believed that a kindly interest by my parents, manifested
     at this time, would work wonders in transforming me into a future
     good and useful citizen. He further added that his advice would be
     to send either my railroad ticket home, or sufficient capital to
     start me out on some new project, as he really believed the young
     man meant well. Pending an answer to his letter he would keep me
     apart from the toughs and general habitués of the bull pen.

     Now he read this note to me, and while it appealed to my sense of
     humor, I couldn't imagine what would happen if he sent it, so I
     fairly begged him not to do so, telling him that my folks thought
     I was doing well, and I promised more things than I can think of,
     so he didn't mail the letter, but instead let me out a couple of
     weeks after my arrest.

     When I received your letter I was much disheartened to see the
     Asheville post mark, as it told me that you had taken the trip
     across the continent for nothing at all--and also, old man, while
     your letter was more polite and courteous than could be expected
     under such circumstances, I could see between the lines all that
     you left unsaid and what you thought of me, and that the letter
     was lacking in the old time enthusiasm, but God, old man, I
     couldn't help it, and can never express in words the sorrow I feel
     in having disappointed you.

     When I left the Academy, and left Reordan behind, I thought that
     I could never again find a friend who understood me so well, or
     who was understood so well by me, but a few weeks later I was
     pleasantly surprised, and I know up to last January you possessed
     a kindred feeling and had faith in me. Probably you may have some
     idea of the way I feel at having deadened the feeling of one whom
     I considered my warmest friend, yourself, when you recollect that
     the chief thing I have done or tried to do thus far in life is
     making friends, and keeping their good regards. Had I enjoyed
     less, I'd be at Annapolis to-day.

     Every acquaintance of mine from Chicago to Pueblo, by way of
     Huron, has heard of you through me, but I can't say enough by
     letter to make me feel right, so I'll knock off, but if you'll
     answer at once telling me that it is all right, and mean it,
     you'll make me feel a whole lot better. I am fully aware of the
     trouble, expense and annoyance I caused you. God knows any one
     would have had their faith shaken, and most people would have
     sent me a letter that would have fairly scorched the paper. To
     think that after looking forward to the time for months, with the
     greatest of pleasure, that something unforeseen should turn up
     that couldn't have disappointed you more had I plotted the whole
     thing out in advance! And, take it from me, that I was never more
     disappointed. But this talk doesn't relieve my feelings.

     Well, I sent home for fifty dollars, which came in due time, as I
     didn't wire, but wrote explaining full particulars, but, needless
     to say, I didn't tell them of the arrest, as I'd never had the
     nerve to face them again if I had. With this money I purchased a
     ticket to Denver, Colorado, and from Denver here. I am working as
     assistant timekeeper in the Open Hearth Division of the Colorado
     Fuel and Iron Works, but I got my foot slightly burned, and intend
     to quit and go to El Paso, and from there to Mexico. Almost had
     my ticket bought when I made the acquaintance of a man named
     Straight, who has a son at the Academy, and he is one of the grand
     high Moguls in this town, with boundless influence, both political
     and otherwise. He has promised me something good, so I've changed
     my mind, but I may change it again before long and travel.

     Well, old man, I have been dreading and deferring it, but now the
     explanation is over with, thank God, and I await with anxiety the
     verdict.

     Goodby, old man, tell me all about yourself and your plans when
     you write, and let that be soon, then I'll answer at once.

            With best regards, I remain,

                Your old pard,

                    WILLIAM B. ANDERSON.

Needless to say, I forthwith informed Anderson it was "all right," and
our careers since then have proved that our mutual disappointment was
for the best.

Transcriber's note:

Minor punctuation errors have been corrected silently.

Page 7: "Barbersville" may be typographical error for present day
"Barberville."

Page 9: Removed duplicate "they."
  (Orig: Boys are always hungry, and justly so when they they haven't)

Pages 16, 17: Standardized "Kissimme" to "Kissimmee."

Page 52: Possible typographical error "rois" for "reis."
  (Orig: three hundred rois, thirty cents in Uncle Sam's coin)

Page 54: Possible typographical error "metal" for "mettle."
  (Orig: test to the utmost the metal of your companion)

Page 54: Changed "vilage" to "village."
  (Orig: safely settled in the little vilage of Blanto)

Page 56: Changed "whch" to "which."
  (Orig: Three days later we received a letter, whch read,)

Page 60: Changed "attenton" to "attention."
  (Orig: turned their attenton toward me.)

Page 61: Removed duplicate "in."
  (Orig: without a blooming sou in in our pockets)

Page 69: Changed "that" to "than."
  (Orig: while I made a better showing that he,)

Page 73: Changed "leared" to "learned."
  (Orig: We leared that Brown had been wanting a couple of men)

Page 82: Changed "approachng" to "approaching."
  (Orig: if ever any of them saw a book agent approachng)

Page 92: Changed "halycon" to "halcyon."
  (Orig: Now, in the good old halycon days at the Academy)

Page 93: Changed "acount" to "account."
  (Orig: When I took an acount of my coin)

Page 96: Changed "firmanent" to "firmament."
  (Orig: heavenly satellites and other decorations of the firmanent)

Page 96: Changed "condem" to "condemn."
  (Orig: "Don't condem me, Jack, until you hear my story.")

Page 98: Changed "unforseen" to "unforeseen."
  (Orig: that something unforseen should turn up)


day; the whole party were now worried lest they should be too late,
for Neyani’s fate hung in the balance, and, perhaps, also that of
Niltci’s mother and his sister.

“That thar letter says the Injuns has took ’em off, somewhere, don’t
it, Sid?” asked Big John as they discussed the matter, urging the
horses along. “Waal, it’s a leetle deetour over to White Mesa, but I’m
going thar, boys. That’s a sacred spot to them Navaho; they’re scairt
to death of it, an’ think it’s full of ghosts, but the hull tribe
sometimes comes thar to pull off some reeligious stunt, each brave
sorta bolsterin’ up the other’s courage. It’s just whar they mought
take ole Neyani--an’, of course, the Major, he couldn’t do nawthin’ but
follow an’ try to talk some sense inter them, ef he heard tell that was
whar Neyani was.”

“I’ve heard of the Enchanted Mesa,” replied Sid. “The Navaho call it
the ‘Judgment Throne of the Ghosts,’ don’t they?”

“I dunno. It’s a skeery place to go by, in the moonlight, even for a
white man. It’s as full of howls and roars, and the awfullest sounds a
body ever listened to,” said Big John. “But I’ll bet my ol’ lid thet
that’s whar Neyani _is_, right now!”

After an hour’s riding White Mesa itself jutted up, in a long
escarpment, shimmering with heat, in the immense distances. As they
gradually neared it Sid felt that never had he beheld such a place.
The odd chalky formation rose in ramparts and pinnacles, like bastions
of huge whitened giant’s bones. By moonlight one could well expect to
see whole regiments of bleached skeletons of departed Indians skipping
across it. But there were living beings there, now!

“What did I tell you?” chortled Big John. “Them little moving dots
along the base is Injuns, on their ponies. Somethin’ doin’, thar, boys!”

As they rode nearer to the blazing white sepulcher the moving dots
showed color and took form. They were the Navaho, a lot of them. Soon
some stopped to look at them and there was a commotion among the tiny
black figures. Then a lone rider galloped furiously out toward them,
mounted on a large black horse.

“That’s no Injun, an’ no pony--it’s Major Hinchman himself!” exclaimed
Big John as the rider streaked out toward them.

The man waved his sombrero. “Hi! Hi!--Back!--Halt!” he called excitedly
as he thundered toward them.

“Yaas--we’re haltin’, a lot!” muttered Big John as they all reined up
and he called back Ruler. “Wonder what’s up?”

“Hi!--Is that you, boys?--Howdy, strangers--get right down!”
yelled the white giant on the horse, for it was Hinchman himself.
“Jee-mentley-dingit, but it’s a mercy of Providence that you-all
happened to come this way!” he exploded as he rode up close. “I
couldn’t have met you at Monument Canyon with this coming off. But I
see you’ve got the dawgs--Jeementley but they look good to me! Whar’s
the Colonel, Sid?”

“Father’s laid up, sir, over in the Grand Canyon,” explained Sid. “Had
a mix-up with a whale of a grizzly and got mauled some, but he’ll be
all right, soon. It’s an old-time California silver-tip, Major, the
biggest bear I ever saw. Got him in back of Buckskin. Niltci’s looking
after father, while we came over----”

“_Niltci!_ Eh? Splen--did!” beamed Major Hinchman, his keen face
lighting up with joy and relief. “You don’t tell me! Nothing on earth
can convince these Injuns but that the Black Panther came and took him
that night----”

The boys laughed, and Big John grinned sheepishly. At the Major’s
questioning glance he told him just how that affair really _was_
managed. Hinchman howled with delight. “Better and better and better!”
he cried, his eyes snapping with pleasure. “You see, boys, since you
have been gone the Black Panther has been visiting _all_ the Navaho
sheep corrals---- I suppose the dogs running him scared him off
Neyani’s--but anyhow he’s become a regular plague. The Navaho now think
the Dsilyi is angry with the whole tribe, and they got madder and
madder at Neyani over it. One day I found Neyani’s hogan broken down
and he and the wife and girl were gone. Couldn’t get a word out of the
tribe about it, but I suspected White Mesa would be where they would
take them. To-day the whole tribe set off for here, and I followed.
Ever hear of the Ganhi, boys?”

They all shook their heads.

“Well, they are giant spirits who live in the mesas and mountains, and
they sometimes interfere in mortal affairs when things get too complex.
This White Mesa’s a regular abode of them. Not a Navaho will come here
except by daylight, and a crowd of them at that. They’ve got Neyani
here, somewhere, up in the cliffs, waiting for the Ganhi to give some
judgment as to what Dsilyi wants. Now, you-all have got Niltci, which
they don’t know. Easy! We’ll stage a miracle with him on White Mesa!
Niltci will come back from the dead--from the house of Dsilyi, b’gosh!
and he’ll tell them”--he paused a minute while his quick brain plotted
something plausible--“I’ve got it!” he shouted joyously. “Why, it’s the
chance I’ve been waiting for these five years! For five years I’ve been
arguin’ with these fool redskins about their using these cheap traders’
dyes for their blankets. But they’re lazy and indifferent, and can’t
see that the mills back east can make Navaho blankets by the thousand
and eventually cut them out of their industry with vile imitations. The
mills can imitate the patterns, but they can’t get those soft colors
of the earth dyes made out here! My stunt is to drive that in by a
miracle, and right now! I’ll appear on White Mesa, you’ll see! I’ll be
an oracle from Dsilyi, telling them that Niltci will come back to earth
on White Mesa, and that the Black Panther will come no more, _if_ they
will get back to their native dyes again.”

“Sounds good, sir,” said Sid. “How about Neyani?”

“I’ll take care of him, too. We’ll see what we shall see!” smiled the
Major enigmatically. “I’m riding along with you, now. You-all turn
back, presently, after we get out of sight of the Injuns around the
bases of those buttes yonder, and scout around. You’ll soon see where
they are keeping Neyani and his family. Then--don’t be scared if you
see a Ganhi, yourselves, boys! And keep your wits about you! Better
go into camp somewhere in here, and tie up the dogs--they’d only make
trouble.”

Once around the chalky bastions of the butte, the Major dismounted and,
taking a bundle from his horse, began to climb up a deep cleft that led
to the top of the mesa. Big John and the boys unsaddled the ponies and
tethered them out, with the dogs leashed on watch under the shade of a
huge cliff.

“Better hook on your canteens, fellers,” said Big John as they started
out. “’Twon’t look well to be askin’ the Injuns for a drink, an’ thar
ain’t no water around hyar.”

Presently they came upon Indians loping in on their ponies from the
general direction of Canyon Cheyo. They tethered them in a rude corral,
hastily thrown up near the entrance of a huge gap that cleft into
the heart of the mesa. Its gorge was filled with Navaho, all silent
and scared, and crowding close together for protection. Usually the
noisiest of Indian tribes, these bucks were now sullen and silent,
greeting the white party with frightened nods, superstitious fear
written on every face.

The way led up a steep, narrow ravine, bare of vegetation, a hideous
gulch of hot and thirsty rocks. The procession had dwindled down to
twos and threes, as Big John and the boys pushed on up it, passing the
hesitating and reluctant Navaho. Evidently the tribe feared what they
were about to see.

Up near the head and slightly below the top of the mesa jutted a tall
white shaft of stone. It was at least fifty feet high, and detached
entirely from the cliff wall for some twenty feet down from the top.
A stratified shelf of rock jutted out here, and upon it they saw the
qcali and three assistant priests, in a ceremonial dress of feathers
and plumes that almost disguised them. They were beating on small skin
drums and chanting a dreary monotone as they danced in the jerky steps
of the Indian.

The boys watched them as they climbed, and then their attention was
attracted to a sort of pocket or cave, opening by a cleft from the
top of the mesa, in the sheer wall of the cliff opposite. The wind
bellowed and sighed in it, making the weird noises that they had heard
without being able to explain them, as they had come up the ravine.
With every swirl of the wind scouring over the flat mesa top above,
this cave answered with a huge sigh. A most uncanny effect--one would
not like to be there at night!

“The mouth of a Ganhi, I suppose!” whispered Sid to Scotty as they
paused. “They are supposed to be a sort of giant genii----”

Then he stopped as his eye roved again to the stone pillar. Up on top
of that white shaft of stone something moved! What he had thought at
first glance were mere hummocks of rock or dusty bowlders, proved to
be three human figures! How they had been put there, or how long they
had been there, he could not imagine. One of them was smaller than the
other two, a pathetic little heap of misery--it was without doubt the
girl, and the other two were Neyani and his wife! the boy realized with
a sudden shock. They were isolated, starving--and worse than that--oh,
much worse--dying of thirst! That lonely rock,--under the pitiless
desert sun!

He and Big John and Scotty pushed up rapidly toward the ledge as he
passed word of his discovery. The Navaho were down below them in the
ravine, straggling along in a thin line, watching the rock fearsomely,
while the priests above chanted. This was the day when Neyani and his
family were expected to die, or confess, or tell of some vision from
the Ganhi, evidently.

Sid looked up. Neyani and his wife had long since given up hope, for
they did not move. They squatted in the stony immovability of Indian
pride, huddled on the bare top of the rock, enduring the thirst torture
stolidly. But the girl was young, and life to her was yet sweet. She
had moved and was now looking down at Sid, and her tongue stuck out
at him, black and dry and revolting. At first the boy thought she was
making a face at him; then he realized that she _could_ not draw back
her tongue! She had reached the last stages of thirst, when the tongue
protrudes like a strangling person’s, black and cracked and dry. Her
dark eyes looked down at him beseechingly.

“Gee, boys, do you see _that_?--Here! I can’t stand this!” barked
Sid, tugging at his canteen. “That girl’s dying of thirst. I’ve been
thirsty, too! I’m going to toss her up my canteen and let the Indians
do what they please about it!”

At sight of it the girl stretched down her arms appealingly. Neyani and
his wife might scorn to beg water, and their spirits still have stern
command over their flesh, but the girl was young, and the all-devouring
wants of her body drove out pride and all else in her overpowering
desire for water, water, water!

A shout went up from the Navaho as Sid sprang up on the ledge, followed
by Scotty and Big John. He motioned to toss up the canteen to the
girl’s outstretched arms.

The qcali stopped, angrily. “No!” he grunted, in English. “White boy
not dare!” A roar went up from the ravine below and knives flashed out,
while men stooped to pick up rocks. The three medicine men crouched
behind the qcali, their eyes blazing hate and defiance.

“No!” yelled the qcali, stretching out his arm in sign to halt.

“_Yes!_--Darn you! Have you _no_ pity?” shouted Sid, stooping to toss
up the canteen to the girl’s waiting hands.

On the motion the qcali leaped for him, his three assistants at his
back--but that was as far as they got! For Big John had leaped in
front, and his guns had flashed out like two level bars of light. It
was the first time the boys had ever seen a gun thrown, and the speed
and certainty of it was astonishing.

“Back off, thar, Injun!--or I’ll fill you so full of bullets they’ll
put ye in the ammynition wagon instead of the ambulance!” gritted Big
John’s quiet, iron-hard tones. “You leave the boy alone!”

There was a tense instant. A single shrill war whoop rang out down in
the ravine and then all was quiet. For,--out of the stillness, came
an insistent rattle, like the whirr of some huge desert rattlesnake.
It seemed to come from the cave opposite, and the Indians’ quick ears
directed all their faces that way. Sid seized the moment when no eyes
were on him to toss up the canteen, where it disappeared over the rim
of the rock pillar.

The whirr from the cave continued. Then a thin trickle of smoke came
weaving out from the edges of its floor. A kind of gasp came from all
the Navaho below, and into the medicine men’s eyes near Sid there crept
an expression of superstitious fear. More smoke wafted out, as they all
watched. It had a greenish tinge, then bluish.

“_Ganhi! Ganhi!_” rose the indistinct, awe-stricken murmur from the
crowd, while the weaker ones turned to flee. It needed but a touch to
stampede them all!

Then from the black depths of the cave, towards its mouth, floated the
weirdest object the boys had ever looked on! It was immensely tall,
filling the whole aperture from top to bottom. It had neither arms
nor legs; and what might be a head was a mass of feathers and prayer
plumes, such as one would see on Indian momo masks. The rest was a
confused drapery of skins and mystic ceremonial objects.

In a hollow voice the Ganhi began to speak, addressing the Navaho
in ghostly sentences that for them had all the tones of almighty
authority. It paused between each utterance, while the crowd shuddered
and all the Navaho raised their arms in prayer, following the lead of
the medicine men on the ledge. After a time the Ganhi ceased, while
fumes of smoke filled the cave and rendered it more and more indistinct.

The qcali finally plucked up courage enough to croak out a word or two
in reply, and then the Ganhi receded gradually into the cave, finally
disappearing in clouds of smoke which puffed out as the vagrant winds
listed up above.

For a long time the crowd stood awe-struck, spell-bound. Then the qcali
shouted out an order. A few responded, but the rest were hastening
out of the ravine, flying from the Enchanted Mesa as quickly as they
could get to their ponies. Big John and the boys waited until they saw
a pole bridge being produced from somewhere and preparations being
made to take down Neyani and his family, the qcali and his assistants
addressing them with every mark of respect and tenderness.

“Now’s a good time to ooze out of this, boys,” whispered Big John. “If
that was the Major, he’s sure a shark on Indian ceremonials!”

CHAPTER XII

THE LAST STAND OF THE BLACK PANTHER

It was dark and the Navaho had all gone when Major Hinchman appeared
again in camp.

“Went off fine, boys! The Black Panther’s not coming any more--that’ll
be up to us, right pronto, for if he visits the Navaho sheep corrals a
single time again we lose all we have gained. Niltci--I told them _I_
was Niltci, now a Ganhi from the spirit world--Niltci will come back
to earth again, soon, in that very cave on White Mesa, and I’ll make a
great medicine man out of him without his knowing any too much about it
himself! The dye business is already fixed up; Niltci can help me drive
that home, too, after I’ve had a talk with him, or the Colonel can make
a good missionary out of him, as you say he has a lot of influence over
the boy, Sid. The thing for us to do now is to ride for Canyon Cheyo
and camp somewhere on the brook to-night, and then run the panther with
the dogs early to-morrow morning. I can only hope and pray that he
don’t go sheep stealing to-night!”

Around the camp fire that night they went over their plans. Sid and
Scotty were to start for Lost Canyon at dawn, while Big John and the
Major would ride with the dogs out to the eastern desert and pick up
the Black Panther’s trail somewhere back in the timber west of the
Navaho settlement. If they treed him, they would shoot and bury him,
then and there; if he made for his lair in Lost Canyon it would be up
to the boys.

“An’ believe me, I’ll be right behint his tail, Major!” declared Big
John. “Them pesky boys is aimin’ to kill me of worry, an’ they’ll git
me yet, with their wild an’ woolly doin’s! I’m fixin’ to be right thar
when that ole comatabody goes a-sky-hootin’ all over the roof of that
pueblo, as he’s bound to do as soon as they begins lettin’ lead inter
him.”

It was in the dark before dawn that Sid roused out, to awake Scotty and
saddle Pinto. “To-day’s the day, old-timer!” he grinned delightedly, as
his knuckles bored into Scotty’s ribs. “Up an’ at ’em, fellah!”

Silently they oiled and cleaned the rifles of desert sand, gulped down
some coffee, and saddled their ponies. A rasp of chains where Ruler had
arisen from his bed of pinyon straw told that he was awake and eager to
be off. Sid went over to him. “Go git ’em, old snoozer!” he whispered
affectionately, fondling the big hound’s long silky ears. “We’re sure
depending on you!” Then with a pat for Pepper and Bourbon, he walked
over to Pinto to grip the bony ridge of his neck, jammed a foot into
his stirrup, and was off, with Scotty galloping hard after him.

By sunup they had reached the little dent in the side chasm that marked
the great natural wall which blocked Lost Canyon. High above them,
hanging down from the ledge at the foot of the cleft, still dangled the
lariat. Picketing the ponies, they strapped on their rifles and climbed
the fir tree where, arriving near its top branches, Sid took off his
rifle and handed it to Scotty.

“I’ll go up first, and then you tie on the rifles and I’ll haul them
up the ledge. After that you swarm up, and we’ll make Fat Man’s Misery
together.”

Scotty sat in the swaying top of the fir tree, trying to get used to
the height as Sid climbed up swiftly above him. To him it seemed a
hideous business, even with a rope, and he wondered how Sid had ever
had the courage to go up there without it the first time. Scotty’s was
the kind of courage that needs lashing from a higher source, from the
inner soul that rules over the whole man. He argued that his was the
highest kind of courage, the kind that forces the cringing body to
go ahead, although it is crying out with fear; but, nevertheless, he
wished he had some of Sid’s kind, whatever it was,--that had no fear at
all, that regarded this climb with the same matter-of-fact directness
that he would have had it been near the ground and the element of
danger eliminated.

“Aw,--what’s the use of being afraid!” his mind belabored his craven
body as he booted it into action when the time came for him to go up.
But he _was_ afraid! Horribly so,--as afraid as the tyro aloft in a
man-o’-war’s rigging for the first time, and his climb up the narrow
cleft did not improve it either. By the time they had reached the trail
up to the pueblo, Scotty was thoroughly exhausted by his wrestles with
his courage and far below the key of his usual manliness. A fearsome
idea had obsessed him after that climb and he now gave it words as
they reached the roof of the cliff dwellings.

“Sid,--suppose this is a real Asiatic black leopard?” he asked. “Did
that ever occur to you, as a possible solution of his coloration?”

“Aw!” grinned Sid, “where’d you get that notion, Les? It’s a color
phase of our own ordinary cougar, that’s all.”

“But it’s possible, though,” persisted Scotty. “Seems I remember
reading once about a big circus that got strewn all over seven counties
by a cyclone down here in Arizona. Now, if they had a black leopard in
their menagerie----”

“Even then--y’aren’t scared, are you?” interrupted Sid, scornfully,
turning to gaze at Scotty with wondering eyes--Scotty who had met the
Ring-Necked Grizzly alone up in Montana!

“No, but I’m facing the facts,” retorted Scotty, stoutly. “If he _is_ a
black leopard, then he’ll _stalk us_--that’s the leopard’s game, every
time. He’s not afraid of men.”

“Well, what of it?” exclaimed Sid, intolerantly. “C’mon, we’ll try his
den first.”

Scotty shrugged his shoulders, as Sid led on with his rifle poised for
instant action. In Sid’s present mood there was no use urging ordinary
plain caution. Scotty, however, scanned the cliffs and trees about them
warily. He wanted to make sure that no panther lurked up on some limb,
to spring on them unawares as is the habit of the leopard in the East.
Sid halted at the edge of the inner wall.

“_Woof!_” he called, shying a stone into the dark recesses of the cave.
“Hi!--Come out and let’s look at you!” he taunted.

But there was not a sound or a movement from those impenetrable depths.

“Good business!” ejaculated Sid. “Nobody home. That means he’s out
after his daily sheep, and the dogs’ll get a fresh track.”

Scotty was not so sure. He looked around cautiously, unmindful of Sid’s
amused sniffs. The tall boy led him over to show him the pueblo of the
Old People, but even then, before its mouth Scotty hesitated, with
rifle cocked, before venturing to peer down. He could bear the reproach
in Sid’s eyes unblushingly, for to him Sid seemed casehardened,
foolhardy almost. His own cave man within him was no such subdued
creature as Sid’s, but was alert and tense as a deer, for a subtle
sixth sense persisted in warning him that _something_ lurked around
that pueblo that was a deadly menace. It might be imagination; it might
be a finer instinct for danger; or possibly some indistinguishable
taint in the air that would have been plain as day to the nostrils of
our ancestors.

Disregarding Sid’s taunting protests, Scotty kept his rifle cocked and
his body on hair trigger, ready to turn or spring aside or leap into
instant action at the first hint of warning. Sid turned away from him
in amused disdain and sat down ruggedly on the outer wall, his ear
cocked for the first distant bay of the hounds. It was broad daylight,
now, with the sun perhaps two hours high, and the chase was due to
arrive any minute.

“Gorry! It’s funny we don’t hear them!” exclaimed Sid, impatiently,
after perhaps fifteen minutes of waiting, his eyes scanning the
opposite rim impatiently.

Scotty nerved himself to speak out what was in his mind. It was the
brave thing to do--morally brave--and he did it. “Suppose, Sid, the
Black Panther heard us coming, and just sneaked out of his lair,--and
is prowling about here _now_----”

An impatient shrug of Sid’s shoulders stopped him. “Scotty, you’re
nervous,” he said, solicitously. “Never let yourself get that way, or
you won’t be able to shoot---- By George!--There’s Ruler, now!”

He had interrupted himself to gaze across the canyon. The great
brown hound stood on the opposite rim. Silently he had come out of
the forest; silent and perplexed, he sniffed the air, testing its
scents. As they watched, his body suddenly stiffened and his tail went
straight as a poker. His ears laid back and his teeth bared, and then
a volleying bark rang out across the canyon. Ruler pawed the ground in
his excitement--then he suddenly ceased and ran along the rim, a houndy
growl, whimpering with eagerness, coming from him.

“That settles it!” said Scotty, rising energetically. “He _saw_ the
Black Panther, Sid! His eyes are sharper than ours. That brute’s around
here, somewhere, behind us or above us--did you note where Ruler seemed
to be looking?”

Both boys were now alert and warned. They stepped slowly along the
roof, toward the ladder end of it, rifles poised, eyes scanning every
possible lurking place.

“By--_Gosh!_--There he _is_!” yelled Scotty in a sudden scream of
fright. “Mark!--_Cliff!_”

He had jumped back as Sid looked up, bewildered. Thirty feet over their
heads, on the sheer face of the cliff where grew out the stubby roots
of a spruce from a crack, crouched the great cat. His eyes smoldered
green fire as he peered down at them over the root, and his pink mouth
opened in a hideous, silent snarl. Then his ears flattened back.

“Shoot! He’s going to jump!” barked Sid, his rifle springing to
shoulder and crashing out as the bead swung up over a confused mass
of black. Down through the smoke that long, lithe shape plunged like
a plummet, a brawny forepaw stretched out, with the five talons
outspread like steel hooks. Both boys leaped back rapidly across the
roof, for when he landed he would rebound like some deadly infernal
spring-machine at one of them. It was a diabolical black head,--the
nose a snarling mass of wrinkles, the eyes spitting savage ferocity,
that turned on Scotty with the quickness of a lightning flash when
the Black Panther hit the roof. His attack was bewildering, a series
of short springs, each a smash of the muscular forepaw, each a wicked
snarl of formidable fangs and a hoarse, hissing cat-spit that nearly
paralyzed Scotty with fright. The youth jumped back, the cat following,
sparring at him as he pranced on three legs. It was impossible to
get the gun muzzle up, as the sweep of that paw would have knocked it
spinning out of his hands. Yet during the short five seconds of that
rush Scotty was aware of the constant baying of a hound and the shouts
of Sid to jump clear to one side so he could fire. Then a frightful
blow, that ripped his sombrero brim and tore it from his head, sent his
rifle up instinctively to ward off, and the next instant it was struck
from his hands, bellowing like a cannon as the trigger jarred loose.

For an instant the Black Panther recoiled at the noise, and in that
instant Sid’s .30 whipped out its sharp report. High in the air
leaped the great cat. All that had gone before was nothing to the
feats of strength and agility he displayed now. He was hit,--he was
enraged,--he was frantic with fury! In one terrific leap he cleared
half the distance between himself and Sid; in the next he was pawing
and striking around Sid’s gun muzzle, stuck into his face as the boy
retreated, prodding at him and trying to reload. Scotty had picked up
his .405 and was frantically yanking on its lever. Then past him leaped
a brown shape, bellowing attack. Ruler it was--in the nick of time to
save Sid! He had done the incredible thing, the impossible thing, of
climbing along the cougar’s cliff route through the spruces! At the
hound’s raging bark, the Black Panther whirled about from Sid and his
back and tail went up until he seemed ten feet tall. Ruler was a third
his size, but the instinct to hump up at the sight of a dog seems
ineradicable in all the cat tribe.

The next instant he had leaped up on the cliff wall, above its
hollowed-out arch, so as to get a high place from which to spring.
“Shoot, Scotty!--Shoot quick!” yelled Sid, for his own rifle had
jammed, with one cartridge in the chamber and another in the carrier,
in the excitement of trying to reload with the panther pawing at
him. The heavy .405 roared out, filling the whole arch with smoke.
Down through it fell the Black Panther, paralyzed for the moment. He
struck on his back, and the rafters of the ancient cliff-dwelling roof
crackled under him. Toward Sid he floundered, his claws scratching
the ’dobe. Blood spurted in a stream from his side and he was dying,
but there was murder in his eyes, hate, fury, the yearning desire to
kill in the last second of life left to him. Rapidly he crawled toward
Sid, purposeful, determined not to die without his jaws clenched in at
least one adversary. Ruler bit and worried and dragged back on him
from behind, but the Black Panther ignored him completely. He had Sid
cornered, in the angle between the side and end wall of the pueblo, and
he knew it.

Scotty hesitated, with wabbling rifle, for a tense moment. If he fired
he would certainly hit Sid, for the two were in line with him and the
heavy bullet would crash clean through the Black Panther from behind.
If he moved to another position he would be too late.

And, during that instant of hesitation, shot after shot rang out up
in the canyon. Bullets came in a leaden hail--from somewhere--as the
cougar flinched and his head was struck from side to side as if lashed
with an invisible whip. It seemed impossible that a man could shoot
so fast and so true as those bullets came that were crashing into the
Black Panther’s skull. Then Scotty’s .405 went off, close at hand, with
a stunning report, and everything was obliterated in a cloud of smoke.
The cougar shuddered, in a last terrible convulsion which shook the
pueblo walls, and then, with a crack of breaking poles, the roof gave
way beneath him and the Black Panther sank from sight.

A thin haze of smoke drifted out from the spruces on the cliff wall,
between the pueblo and Fat Man’s Misery, as the boys looked around to
see where those finishing shots had come from. Then Big John’s voice
rang out from the green depths.

“Say,--that was the devil’s own climb, boys! I ain’t so leetle but what
I got a number ten foot and a number two haid, an’ that lariat looked
like a pack cord to me! How d’ye git down out’n hyar?--she’s all slide
rock!”

_Whoopee!_--Big John! The boys howled at each other happily at the
sound of his familiar tones. Then Sid shouted him directions, and after
a time he himself appeared over the ladder head on the pueblo wall.

“Wa’n’t invited to the party but I _got_ hyar, allee-samee pronto!”
grinned Big John, as he mounted to the roof. “You boys’ll break this
ole hoss-wrangler’s neck yit! Right sociable time ye was havin’ with
the trick cougar, eh,--Siddy boy!” he chuckled, winking at Scotty. “_I_
seen him, flewin’ round, soon’s I clumb through the cliff, so I wraps
myself around a tree, up thar, an’ draws cyards to set in the game,
too.”

“Came in mighty handy, John--my next would have been a jump over that
wall into kingdom come, if you hadn’t opened up!” laughed Sid, still
fussing with the jammed army cartridge. “Darn a rimless shell, anyhow,
I’ll say!”

Ruler was having a wonderful time, all by himself, worrying at the
carcass below, so they all dropped down to examine the great, glossy
prize.

“Gee, what a trophy!” exclaimed Sid, admiringly. “Cougar or leopard,
he’s a scientific curiosity! But we’ve got to bury him, boys. It’s our
duty. We couldn’t ship that skin out of Arizona without the warden
examining it, and word of it would sure get back to the Indians. We owe
it to Major Hinchman, fellows. Look for a kiva in this floor.”

“Dern them Injuns, anyhow!” grunted Big John. “I hate to part with this
ole boy, somehow; we shore hev had a fine time with him!”

They scratched around in the dust and after a time unearthed the round
stone cover of the kiva, or underground cave, that is built in every
pueblo for the mystic rites of the rain priests. Into its dark cavern
the body of the Black Panther disappeared, forever, as they replaced
the stone and tamped back the earth.

“Shore it’s a derned shame!” snorted Big John. “Good-by, kitty! You
were a good kitty, an’ you give us a nice party while you lasted--only
you didn’t onderstand that sheep ain’t public property! C’mon, boys,
we’ll have a fat job gittin’ Ruler down them ledges! The Major’s thar,
waitin’ fer us with the other two dawgs. We shoved fer your canyon as
soon as Ruler didn’t give tongue, fer I knew the Black Panther was hyar
and there’d be doin’s.”

“Sure was!” grinned Scotty. “But now that he is properly abolished, the
Major ought to be able to smooth the Indians down all right. He can
keep his word about the Black Panther coming no more, now.”

Sid was the last to leave the little cliff dwelling. It was with a
feeling of sadness that he turned away. The place had become tragic,
the tomb of a noble beast that had been a notable character, in his
way. Like the Indian, Sid inwardly begged his pardon for their having
had to kill him. This cliff dwelling would be his fitting monument. He
belonged here, in the silence and mystery of an ancient and changeless
land. For countless ages the cougar, the bear, the wolf, and the
deer had lived with the red men of this country, generation after
generation, century after century. They were part of it all, together
with the desert sun and the clouds and winds. Life, as it was lived
here, had become a settled, stabilized thing long, long ago. The White
Man was an intruder; he could take it or leave it as he chose; but he
could not alter it, by one jot or tittle.

Sid did not wish to alter it. The desert, the canyon, and all their
inhabitants suited him.

“This is my country!--These are my people!” he whispered to himself.
“Ethnology for mine! Practical ethnology. I’ll begin with Major
Hinchman for a guide. Some day, when all this blows over, I’ll come
back up here and get those pottery treasures from the Old People’s
pueblo.”

Sid turned for a last look as they reached the point near the cleft
from which Big John had fired. Silent, mysterious, inscrutable as
eternity, the walls of the cliff dwelling nestled under its great
over-arching cave. Old as the centuries, typical of this country and of
the spirit that broods over its changeless canyon and desert, it had
acquired a new dignity, it locked a new secret in its walls, for it was
now the tomb of the Black Panther of the Navaho, and over it hung the
sable majesty of Death.

He turned to the cleft, where all was sweating activity.

“Easy with Ruler, thar, Scotty!” Big John was bellowing from a
precarious footing on the lower ledge. “The Colonel will skin me alive
ef we drap him. We starts across for the Big Crack, to-night, boys. Let
me git that white hoss atween my knees jest onct more--an’ ye don’t git
me up no cliffs ag’in, nohow!”

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.