DEPARTURE OF THE GUEST.

“BEN and me done travelled a good deal together,” said Rickard, with a faint sigh; “he was the quickest chap on the shoot I ever met; I never knowed him to miss when he had any show at all, and he was the luckiest fellow that ever walked. Do you know what Ben’s rule was?” asked Rickard, turning toward the cowboys, as if about to impart a piece of delightful news.

“It was to shoot whenever he had the slightest excuse,” replied Strubell, who evidently had little respect for one of the most famous characters that Texas ever brought to the surface.

“Whenever he got into a shooting scrap he always let the other chap fire first; for then, when he let fly, he had a good case of self-defence. He always done that, as he told me himself.”

I may be allowed to say that this remark about Ben Thompson, once City Marshal of Austin, was true. He informed me that he had followed the rule for years, and it doubtless helped to secure his acquittal in a large number of the cases where he was tried for slaying others, though the shameful admiration shown him by all classes had much to do with his immunity from legal punishment. As has been hinted, however, there came a time when Ben’s rule failed to work satisfactorily for himself. It was down in San Antonio, the scene of more than one of his crimes, that a half dozen men worked in a volley from their Winchesters ahead of Ben’s revolver, and he died with his boots on, the last shot which he fired before breathing his last causing the death of one of his assailants.

It is hardly worth while to give the conversation which went on by the camp fire for fully two hours, for it was not of a character that can be commended to readers. There were stirring reminiscences of those “bad men,” known a few years ago respectively as Bill Longley and John Wesley Hardin. I suppose that Texas never produced two more desperate men. When I saw Longley, he was as handsome a person as I ever met, and proved to be one of the few legally hanged individuals in the Lone Star State, his taking off occurring some years ago in Galveston.

Hardin was more ill-favored, as to personal appearance. He was the son of a preacher, and was named for one of the great founders of Methodism. When I last talked with the stumpy, broad-faced desperado he was in the Austin penitentiary, serving a twenty-five years’ sentence for horse stealing, the numerous capital crimes he had committed not being taken into account.

The point I am making is that Bell Rickard, who, in his way, was as evil a man as any one of those whom I have named, having entered the camp as a prisoner, was treated as a guest. No one unacquainted with the circumstances would have suspected there was any feeling other than the strongest friendship between them.

They recalled the numerous stirring scrimmages in which they had taken part, and generally with Strubell and Lattin as the deadly enemies of Rickard and his friends. They laughed over the many close calls, when their mutual escapes seemed to turn on a hair, and even referred to those that were likely to occur again in the near future.

Nick Ribsam grew so interested that he forgot his duty as sentinel, and, leaning on his gun, stared with open mouth at the attenuated Texan, with his scraggly beard, restless gray eyes, and alert movements, as he smoked and laughed and talked.

Suddenly Strubell turned to the youth and said:

“Nick, I guess you had better take a look at the animals; Bell may have some friends around; if you get sight of any, don’t bother to ask questions, but drop them at the first shot.”

Rickard stopped in the middle of a remark he was making, and looked at the young man with a smile. Then he resumed his words, and the conversation went on as before. Nick walked slowly out to where the ponies were lying on the ground, wondering and puzzled by the new phase of southwestern life as he saw it for the first time.

“Wal,” said Rickard, after talking a while longer, as he rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and yawned, “I guess I’ll have to be going, pards. By-by.”

“By-by,” returned Strubell and Lattin, the latter adding:

“Take good care of yourself, Bell, till we meet again.”

“The same to you,” he returned, moving off in the darkness at a leisurely gait, which showed that personal danger was the last thought that entered his mind.

Nick Ribsam, who was still standing near the animals, saw the tall figure, with slightly stooping shoulders, approaching.

“Helloa, younker, where are you?” he asked, coming to a halt and peering round in the gloom, his opportunity for seeing the youth being less favorable than that of Nick for observing him.

“I am here,” replied the lad, holding his Winchester in a tight grip and apprehensive of trouble.

“I only wanted to say good-by to you; I think you and me will meet before many days; till then, the best of luck to you.”

“The same to yourself,” replied Nick, who kept his eyes on the fellow until he mingled with the gloom and became invisible.

Then he walked back to the camp fire, in answer to a whistle from Strubell, who asked the time. It was not quite three o’clock, but was so near that hour that the elder Texan told him to lie down while he and Lattin looked after things for the rest of the night.

Nick hoped his friends would give an explanation of the strange occurrence, but, though he waited several minutes, no reference was made to it, and he lay down in his blanket beside the sleeping Herbert, who had not once opened his eyes.

It was some time before the youth became unconscious, for he was affected by what he had seen and heard. He was convinced that, however friendly the feeling appeared to be between the Texans and their visitor, the latter was a deadly enemy of himself. He believed, too, that Rickard’s parting words contained a threat, and he was sure there would be a meeting between them before many days.

Finally slumber overcame him and he did not awake until he heard the voice of Herbert, and all were astir, with day fully come.

Strubell was busy preparing coffee over the coals, and cooking the remains of the maverick shot the day before. The climate and the life they were leading brought strong appetites, and all fell to with the vigor of health and strength. Herbert was in fine spirits, and said he felt better than at any time since leaving home. There was little doubt that he had received wonderful benefit from his trip, and, if nothing in the way of a set back occurred, he had the best reason to believe he would be fully restored to health, long before the time came for his return home.

The Texans still avoided all reference to Rickard, and Nick decided to await a good opportunity before telling his young friend of the remarkable incident. He was resolved to ask no questions and to show no curiosity.

“I can stand it as long as they,” he said to himself, “and shall give them their own time to speak about it or leave it alone as they may prefer.”

It took the party but a brief time to load up their two pack animals, and to saddle, bridle, and mount their ponies. Then, when they faced the northwest, they formed a picturesque sight.

Each of the four was mounted on a wiry pony of Spanish stock, active, intelligent, and enduring. Not one of them had ever felt the touch of currycomb or brush. Nick and Herbert, who had aimed to equip themselves as much like their adult companions as possible, were provided with ponderous saddles of wood and leather, weighing fully a dozen pounds apiece, with a pommel almost six inches in diameter. Those of the cowboys were quite costly, being sprinkled with silver stars on different parts of their surface.

Two cinches were required to hold each of the saddles in place, a forward and a flank girth. The wardrobe of the Texans has already been described, but I should have stated that the boys had imitated them in that respect also. They were provided with the broad-brimmed wool hat, known by the Mexican name of sombrero, with a jacket of ducking, shirts of calico or hickory, trousers of stout stuff, over which were worn leather leggings. All had heavy boots, to which were attached two-inch rowels, and the pack animals, besides the heavy blankets, simple cooking utensils, and various articles, carried a slicker of oiled linen for each, which, when the weather was threatening, enveloped the rider from head to heels.

There were two articles, however, carried by the cowboys which the boys did not have. Those were lariats (called in Southern California only by the name of lasso). They were about forty feet long and were composed of eight pliable rawhide thongs, plaited into ropes of a half-inch diameter. Strubell and Lattin were experts in the use of the lariat, an accomplishment which the boys could not hope to attain, since they had deferred the necessary practice until too late in life.