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Sullivan had gone. Gradually the incident was almost forgotten and the folks of the town generally were glad that another cattle thief had escaped. All of their sympathies

bent in that direction.

Sullivan never was caught. An offer of one thousand dollars reward had no effect, and the popular belief was that he had reached the Hole-in-the-wall country and was safe there. A month or two afterward Mrs. Sullivan, the children and Dick Shields left the ranch. They packed up what belongings they had, got their neighbor, Billy Clay, to drive them over to Laramie City and there they purchased tickets to Washington Territory. Mr. Fleecem got the ranch, the horses and a few head of cattle, selling them at a low price to a neighbor. The whole affair was past and time with its mellow hand smoothed over the crime, the escape and the perfidy of a woman. Only the principal actors in the scene could remember what took place and ever and anon there came back in vivid colors the incidents of those days.

This merry month of May I was driving with Dave Morris across from Chugwater to Goshen's Hole on the Fox Creek Divide, a great stretch of level grassy land, flat to the eye as a pancake. The dry farmers have rung the changes; no longer are Two Bar cattle or Senator Warren's sheep in sight, but the steam plough, the little homestead, the cackling poultry and the noisy dog. The cowpuncher sees the end of his work in Wyoming, for the wave of invasion is pushing not only into the valleys but over the divides. So Dave, living in that mighty past, when a dozen round-up wagons assembled at Pine Bluff and worked from there to Fort Steele, gossiped along about old days and departed glories, and then, dropping into a confidential mood, gave me an opportunity to ask him about many of the men who had worked by our side and then disappeared. Tiger and Dandy, the horses we were driving, had slowed down to a walk as if by intuition. So I said, "Dave, did you ever hear anything about Sullivan? You know what a good man he was when he worked for the outfit." "Yes, sir," said Dave, “matrimony brought on that

tragedy; whenever a cowpuncher gets married he either makes a spoon or spoils a horn. I never knew a man change so much as 'Red Horse' after he married that woman. She was a biscuit shooter in a Rawlins hotel and when Sullivan was working down on Snake River as foreman for an outfit he got stuck on her and they were married and after a good deal of changing about they settled in the Sybille country. What a night that was in Cheyenne when he escaped from the deputy sheriff." "You don't mean to say you were there, Dave?" "Boss, I must tell you the whole story. It has been on my conscience for fifteen years or more. Three or four of us Swan boys were in town. We kept ourselves in the background. I knew there was a plot to rescue Sullivan and I should have told Fredenhall. Ira was a good friend of mine but the deputy I had no use for. I let it pass, so help me God, and I have never forgiven myself. You knew the man who held the horse, but I cannot give him away for he still lives in this part of the country. It was Pete Steckle who opportunely came in the way of the deputy in the hall of the courthouse." "The devil you say!" "Yes sir-ee, it was old Pete who did it. Man alive! what would you expect! Pete and 'Red Horse' had slept together that awful winter on Horse Creek. Don't you remember getting a letter from Pete after the March storm when so many Two Bar and Italic H cattle perished on which the heading was 'Hell and Damnation Creek?' That's where their love for one another began and you know Pete's true as steel. But I've worse to tell you, Boss. When Sullivan rode quietly out of Cheyenne he knew where to go. After he cleared the town he struck straight for his ranch. How that man could ride! He was like greased lightning on a horse. A sixty-mile ride was nothing to him. He passed through Rainsford's pasture early in the morning and shortly after eight o'clock he was home. He caught a fresh horse, packed a sack of flour, some bacon, and other necessaries, a blanket or two and then struck into the mountains. Near the head of Blue Grass was an old cabin known probably only to himself. There he hid

and remained for two or three weeks. When the search for him had slackened he ventured down to the ranch, where he found his wife and Dick Shields together. He got some food supplies and went back to his solitary vigil in the mountain fastness. His visits became more frequent and he began arranging how to get out of the country and have his wife and family meet him. Dick seemed all readiness to help. Two months had probably passed when one morning I called at the ranch. There were no signs of life about it except a horse with its bridle reins on the ground. I got off and walked up to the door of the log cabin. There sat Sullivan, dazed, his head between his hands, a piece of paper in one of them. He gave a great start as I spoke to him, whipping out his revolver. Then when he saw who it was he fell back in his chair almost in a faint. When he recovered he handed me the paper. On it was scrawled in pencil: 'Dick, the kids, and me have left; don't follow us or we will give you away.' Then came a burst of agony, deep emotion, every chord of love trembling; his character gone, his wife whom he had worshipped fleeing with another man, the man whom he had trusted, and then the children! The cup of misery was overflowing. All this suffering past, present and future springing from his worship of a worthless woman." Here Dave stopped, took out his chunk of tobacco and made a vicious bite at it. After his own emotion was over I said, "What was the sequel?" Dave looked up, tears in his eyes, and said, "Boss, you have known me now for a quarter of a century. You know that I have served the Company faithfully, that there is not a dishonest hair in my head, and yet"-There he paused and his mind seemed to wander back to that morning in the valley of the Sybille. And as he got courage and braced himself to the effort he continued: "Yes, sir, I must tell the whole story, and it will be off my mind. I persuaded Sullivan to go back to his hiding place, in fact, I went with him. It was a cabin among the rocks, near by a little spring that dripped over a ledge of rock. On one side was a bed of pine branches, on the other a worn out rusty stove, a home-made table, not a

chair or other sign of comfort. It had evidently been the home of a prospector and was falling to pieces, having been abandoned years before. From a bold, outstanding rock you could see behind you the great, massive block of Squaw Mountain and far below was the valley of the Sybille, the streak of green cottonwoods showing its course; further still the Wheatland flat and then the valley of the Laramie. I never saw a man take on so. Although I cooked some food Sullivan would not touch it, so I bade him good-by and went on my way." "What came over him?" I asked. "Ah, that is the worst of it. A few days after, I think it was the next Sunday, I rode up to see Sullivan. He was one of my oldest amigos in the country and while I would not for any amount of money have told Bowie about my visit to his mountain retreat, I could not go back on him. When I got to the cabin there was no sign of life, no trace of his horse, the saddle and bridle lay at the door. I looked in and there lay Sullivan face downwards across his blankets and pine branch bed. A strange odor was in the place. There was no mistaking what had happened. He was dead, for his six shooter lay beside him. The blood had oozed away into the coverlet. My head swam and I found myself leaning against the door post sick at my stomach, strange thoughts coursing through my brain. My whole life seemed rolled up like a round-up bed and scenes long forgotten flashed across my mind. God help me, if I have ever to go through such another quarter of an hour. Swarms of bluebottle flies were busy in the place, on a great pine tree sat two turkey buzzards, blinking their eyes in the sun, scenting but seeing not the carrion in the cabin. Instinctively I closed the door and for a reason I never fathomed, though I judge it was for the best, I placed a lot of dead brush by it, applied a match and rode away."

CHAPTER XXXVI

T IS interesting as well as historical to go over some of the old papers connected with the early days of

I

ranching so far as the British companies are concerned. They were mostly floated in Scotland and it is simply marvelous how freely the cautious Scotch investors loaded up with securities of this character. The reports written on properties were couched in the most sanguine language. The newspapers were enthusiastic and paper profits made you giddy when you took pencil in hand and calculated them. It was one pyramid upon another. If the cattle had been actually counted, then carefully managed and conservative dividends paid, there might have been a fair profit. But it is only the truth to say that the average delivery of the various herds turned over were about two-thirds of the book count. Here is a list of a dozen companies. There were others, but the following represent the larger companies:

The Prairie Cattle Co. 181
The Swan Land & Cattle Co.
The Texas Land & Cattle Co.

The Matador Land & Cattle Co.

The Hansford Land & Cattle Co.

The Arkansas Valley Land & Cattle Co.

The American Pastoral.

The Powder River Cattle Co.

The Western Land & Cattle Co. 1872

The Cattle Ranche & Land Co.

The Western Ranches.

The Espuela Land & Cattle Co.

Some of these names may not be technically correct, but near enough for our purpose. In the year 1883 they were flourishing. In 1887 every one passed its dividend, and today, after less than forty years, only two of them remainthe "Swan" and the "Matador." And as a cattle ranch and

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