Bob Hampton of Placer | Page 5

Glencaid. I learn that the climate there is more salubrious, more
conducive to long living, the citizens of Placer being peculiarly
excitable and careless with their fire-arms."
The sergeant had been listening with open mouth. "The hell you say!"
he finally ejaculated.
"The undented truth, every word of it. No wonder you are shocked. A
fine state of affairs, isn't it, when a plain-spoken, pleasant-mannered

gentleman, such as I surely am,--a university graduate, by all the gods,
the nephew of a United States Senator, and acknowledged to be the
greatest exponent of scientific poker in this territory,--should be
obliged to hastily change his chosen place of abode because of the
threat of an ignorant and depraved mob. Ever have a rope dangled in
front of your eyes, sergeant, and a gun-barrel biting into your cheek at
the same time? Accept my word for it, the experience is trying on the
nerves. Ran a perfectly square game too, and those ducks knew it; but
there 's no true sporting spirit left in this territory any more. However,
spilled milk is never worth sobbing over, and Fate always contrives to
play the final hand in any game, and stocks the cards to win. Quite
probably you are familiar with Bobbie Burns, sergeant, and will recall
easily these words, 'The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft
agley'? Well, instead of proceeding, as originally intended, to the
delightful environs of Glencaid, for a sort of a Summer vacation, I have,
on the impulse of the moment, decided upon crossing the Styx. Our
somewhat impulsive red friends out yonder are kindly preparing to
assist me in making a successful passage, and the citizens of Glencaid,
when they learn the sorrowful news of my translation, ought to come
nobly forward with some suitable memorial to my virtues. If, by any
miracle of chance, you should pull through, Wyman, I would hold it a
friendly act if you suggest the matter. A neat monument, for instance,
might suitably voice their grief; it would cost them far less than I
should in the flesh, and would prove highly gratifying to me, as well as
those mourners left behind in Placer."
"A breath of good honest prayer would serve better than all your fun,"
groaned the sergeant, soberly.
The gray eyes resting thoughtfully on the old soldier's haggard face
became instantly grave and earnest.
"Sincerely I wish I might aid you with one," the man admitted, "but I
fear, old fellow, any prayer coming from my lips would never ascend
very far. However, I might try the comfort of a hymn, and you will
remember this one, which, no doubt, you have helped to sing back in
God's country."

There was a moment's hushed pause, during which a rifle cracked
sharply out in the ravine; then the reckless fellow, his head partially
supported against the protecting bowlder, lifted up a full, rich barytone
in rendition of that hymn of Christian faith--
"Nearer, my God, to Thee! Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee!
Nearer to Thee."
Glazed and wearied eyes glanced cautiously toward the singer around
the edges of protecting rocks; fingers loosened their grasp upon the rifle
barrels; smoke-begrimed cheeks became moist; while lips, a moment
before profaned by oaths, grew silent and trembling. Out in front a
revengeful brave sent his bullet swirling just above the singer's head,
the sharp fragments of rock dislodged falling in a shower upon his
upturned face; but the fearless rascal sang serenely on to the end,
without a quaver.
"Mistake it for a death song likely," he remarked dryly, while the last
clear, lingering note, reechoed by the cliff, died reluctantly away in
softened cadence. "Beautiful old song, sergeant, and I trust hearing it
again has done you good. Sang it once in a church way back in New
England. But what is the trouble? Did you call me for some special
reason?"
"Yes," came the almost gruff response; for Wyman, the fever stealing
back upon him, felt half ashamed of his unshed tears. "That is, provided
you retain sufficient sense to listen. Old Gillis was shot over an hour
ago, yonder behind that big bowlder, and his girl sits there still holding
his head in her lap. She'll get hit also unless somebody pulls her out of
there, and she's doing no good to Gillis--he's dead."
Hampton's clear-cut, expressive face became graver, all trace of
recklessness gone from it. He lifted his head cautiously, peering over
his rock cover toward where he remembered earlier in the fight Gillis
had sought refuge.
CHAPTER II

OLD GILLIS'S GIRL
Excepting for a vague knowledge that Gillis had had a girl with him,
together with the half-formed determination that