A WESTERN STORY.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume V, Issue 1035, 27 December 1883, Page 4

A WESTER N STORY.

The genuine American desperado is now almost a being of the past. That lawless society of miners, living in its atmosphere of blue shirts, slouched hats, and six-shooters, has gradually been transformed into a less adventurous and more civilised community. A collection of wooden shanties may still be called a city, and may still be deserted at an hour’s notice. But it is no longer inhabited by bands of rowdies and roaring swash-bucklers. The “ road agent ” and border ruffian still remain, but they are cold-blooded in their misdeeds, and are warmed by none of the romance which made their predecessors famous. A ll we have left are Brel Harte’s dramatic pictures of wild camp life and the rude Cymons of the Californian gorges. If the painter of Western manners were to shoulder his blanket, sling his six-shooter in his belt, put his note-book in his pocket, and.go in search of fresh adventures, he would never discover another Poker Flat.” A few weeks ago one of the last of the old free-living devil-may-care frontiers men met his end in a drunken fray at Monterey, a small town in Mexico. He had been drinking hard during his visit; a trifling dispute with the police arose; he was remarkably “handy” with his six-shooter and could see straight enough , to kill the officer for presuming to dog his footsteps. The officer’s own weapon unfortunately went off in his fall, and the bullet lodgedj in his opponent’s leg.. He was immediately surrounded, and, after holding his enemies at bay for a few seconds, covered with Wounds, was at last overcome, and died a few days afterwards. It is an episode from his life which we have to tell.

Some fifteen years ago Jeff Miller was a State ranger, stationed at a remote frontier post town. Every man carried his life in his hands. There was danger from friend and foe alike. The Comanches and the Lipan Indians were masters of the surrounding territory, and could swoop down at any moment upon the little town. Rough miners, unkempt trappers, desperate gamblers, constituted the society of the frontier post. The pleasures of this cheerful community were chiefly taken at a casino, where a ball was held every night The discordant element appeared in “St. Louis Sail,” a “ fresh and dazzling blonde.” At the casino she swept everything before her—ranger, rowdies, gamblers, fell her victims. Before twenty-four hours were over one of them was shot for her coquetries. She never drank, she tiever swore, which was unusual. Eventually Jeff Miller, the ranger, fell in Jpye with “ St Louis Sal,” attracted by

her charms, physical and intellectual. ,J>ne,:nigbt what is called a “ dramatic n incident ” took place. Two cowboys (a desperately unpicturesque compound), mad with post whisky and Sal’s eyes, set to. The six-shooters of the two combatants “leaped from their scabbards,” and were “ elevated - with a simultaneous click.” The fair - cause of the difficulty screamed with terror, and threw her white arms about the neck of one of the men. “Don’t , quarrel,” she cried. “ Don’t.” Then . one of them struck her to the ground, and shot bis opponent dead. Turning ;; round with the smoking pistol in his hand, he was confronted by who shot:him through the head with admirablecoolness. Jeff lifted the unconscious woman in his arms and carried her to • a little adobe house close by. The * next day the hero and the heroine of . ; -the adventure settled down to domesticity in a small “jocal ” on the outskirts. Both of them mended their ways. She gave up the delights of the casino, he forsook the post whisky. He was very kind and tender to her, and she loved him with that unselfish, hungry affection which a dog has for his master. He stopped play and never and one day an old acquaintance who was drunk sneeringly advised him 10 “take to preachin’.” Society was ..surprised, in fact, but silent, for Jeff Miller was “ handy ” with his firearms. And so matters went on for a while, .iiuch to the benefit of both. One night Miller arrested a “ rustler,” whose friends attempted a rescue. He shot ' one man, and was fighting his way to ' the door of the saloon, when a friend l of the prisoner covered Miller with his . revolver. He was a dead shot, and Jeff would have probably been either killed or badly wounded ; but just as the gambler’s finger pressed the trigger a worn an sprang between them, and when the smoke from his pistol cleared away “StLouisSal” lay on the floor all bathed in blood. This was so unexpected that the ranger and his prisoner were forgotten, and Jeff got outside the saloon with him safely. Jt does seem a little odd that Jeff should iiave troubled about his prisoner at such a moment.) Cocking his six-shooter, he rushed back into the saloon with “ blood in his eye and revenge in his heart,” Sal’s murderer had fled, and they had lifted her up and placed her on a billiard-table. Jeff threw himself beside her. “ Genuine tears flooded his eyes as he bent down to kiss her, and his voice trembled when he whirpered her name.” “Speak to me, little queen,” he said.

She opened her eyes, and ihey were flooded with a great warmth of love. She held out her hand and he raised it to his lips. “ It’ll soon be over, Jeff,”’ she said faintly. “ I have always been true to you since that night, and now you . know that I love you.” It cost her a great effort to say this, and a spasm of pain contracted her face. She made a sign, and he lifted her up and placed her arms about his jneck. "Kiss 'me, Jeff,” she whispered, and when their lips met hers were already damp with the dew of death. He continued holding her there, hut she never spoke again, and died in his arms. He buried be under a big pecan ‘ free just back of the little jocal, where dte used to sit on pleasant evenings Ringing and sewing, and at the end of the mound set up a rude stone cross, on the face of which he chiselled deep Hhe two word® “ Little Queen.” He never spoke about her afterwards, but he began to drink again,” and ; quitted the service. f> I did not see him again for years, J ’ says -the teller of . the story. He always expressed a ,desire «o “die with his boots on,” and asi ■will be seen from the tragedy at Mob"‘teirfey, hjpbad bis wish. —Pall Mall x GaZ&U.