Page:On the border with Crook - Bourke - 1892.djvu/122

 jack-rabbits scurried from under the horses' feet. Then it was that driver and passenger alike, scared from a fretful doze, would nervously grasp the ever-ready rifle or revolver, and look in vain for the flight of arrows or await the lance-thrust of skulking foes.

Through it all, however, Frank remained the same kind, entertaining host; he always seemed to consider it part of his duties to entertain each one who travelled with him, and there was no lack of conversation, such as it was. "Never knowed Six-toed Petey Donaldson? Wa'al, I sw'ar! Look like enough to be Petey's own brother. Thought mebbe you mout 'a' bin comin' out ter administer on th' estate. Not thet Petey hed enny t' leave, but then it's kind o' consolin' t' a feller to know thet his relatives hev come out ter see about him. How did Petey die? Injuns. Th' Apaches got him jest this side o' the Senneky (Cienaga); we'll see it jest's soon 's we rise th' hill yander." By the time that the buckboard drew up in front of the post-office, what with cold and hunger and thirst and terror, and bumping over rocks and against giant cactus, and every other kind of cactus, and having had one or two runaways when the animals had struck against the adhering thorns of the pestiferous "cholla," the traveller was always in a suitable frame of mind to invite Frank to "take suthin'," and Frank was too much of a gentleman to think of refusing.

"Now, lemme give yer good advice, podner," Frank would say in his most gracious way, "'n' doan't drink none o' this yere 'Merican whiskey; it's no good. Jes' stick to mescal; that's the stuff. Yer see, the alkali water 'n' sand hereabouts 'll combine with mescal, but they p'isens a man when he tries to mix 'em with whiskey, 'specially this yere Kansas whiskey" (the "tenderfoot" had most likely just come over from Kansas); "'n' ef he doan' get killed deader nor a door-nail, why, his system's all chock full o' p'isen, 'n' there you are."

The establishment of the rival paper, the Citizen, was the signal for a war of words, waxing in bitterness from week to week, and ceasing only with the death of the Arizonian, which took place not long after. One of the editors of the Citizen was Joe Wasson, a very capable journalist, with whom I was afterward associated intimately in the Black Hills and Yellowstone country during the troubles with the Sioux and Cheyennes. He was a well-informed man, who had travelled much and seen life