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 had begun the service of his sentence.” This was the view held by his Honor, and he ordered the prisoner discharged from custody forthwith. Henry Fogle was justly famous for his knowl- edge of the loop-holes of justice, and his readi- ness in taking advantage of them.

Peterson, after his discharge, wandered about town in an aimless sort of way, occasionally pausing and drawing his hand across his brow, as if that action would clear up the doubt and mystery surrounding the late events of which he had been the involuntary victim—striving, without knowing, to break the web that was be- ing woven around him. While standing in the shadow of a deserted building, he was ap- proached by a suspicious looking man, roughly dressed, and apparently anxious to escape ob- servation. The man walked by him, and then suddenly turned, and, in a hurried whisper, in- formed him that he was a friend, that a move- ment was on foot in the town to redrrest him as “Chaparral George,” and perhaps hang him. He had been sent by Fogle, he said, to warn him, and if he would hurry to the dead pine, on the Bridgeport trail, he would find a mustang tethered there, which he would do well to mount and cross the mountains as rapidly as the ani- mal could carry him. Peterson listened like a man in a dream, gazing at the messenger in a semi-stupor until he had concluded. Then, without a word in reply, as if obeying an im- perative command, he took the Bridgeport trail, and finding the horse as indicated, mounted it, and rode into the hills.

Two days after, as evening was falling, Peter- son, travel-stained and weary, rode into Monte- zuma. He passed through the town, and up the narrow pathway to a deserted cabin under the ridge of Table Mountain. A single glance revealed the condition of the hut, but it did not change Peterson’s purpose of alighting and en- tering. He stood for a moment in the centre of the larger apartment, memories of the past— the miserable past—rising before him like the grim spectres of his dead hopes and smothered ambitions. The clatter of hoofs outside aroused him, and a voice, exclaiming, “That’s the horse, Buck,” drew him to the door. Two men were dismounting, and while one of them secured Peterson’s horse, the other drew a six-shooter and leveled it at Roger.

“Throw up your hands, George; if you move T'll let daylight through you.” There was no gainsaying the command, and Peterson obeyed mechanically.

“Where'd you get that droncho?” asked the

man with the pistol, advancing toward the door.

“In Mammoth City. I s’pose you're the owner, ain’t ye?” answered Peterson.

“Not exactly, but as it’s stolen property, and I’m a Deputy Sheriff, I suppose it’s my property in trust for the rightful owner. The horse belongs in Montezuma, and it ain’t saying much for your cuteness that you’ve run your neck into” the halter, coming back to where it was stolen, and riding boldly through the town on the plun- der. Fetch those irons here, Jack.” The offi- cer by this time stood beside Peterson, with his pistol still leveled; in fact, he seemed to regard his prisoner with so much consideration that he did not lower his weapon until the man address- ed as “Jack” had securely handcuffed his pris- oner.

“I guess I can manage him now, Jack. I'll take him to the jail, and you can follow after with the horses ;” saying which, “Buck” direct- ed his prisoner to march ahead. On the way down the trail the Deputy Sheriff attempted to “pump” his prisoner, but Peterson replied only in monosyllables, and this reticence fully con- firmed the officer in his supposition that he had made an important capture—that he was about to cage the notorious “Chaparral George,” the great desperado of the Sierra. As for Peter- son, this new scene in his life-drama produced no very startling effect upon an intellect already thoroughly dulled by ever recurring calamities, and the constant, but vain, effort to conceive why he, an obscure and unknown member of society, should be thus set up as a target for the shafts of misfortune. Even after he was thrust into the gloomy cell of the town-jail he failed to realize, or even to care particularly, what the future might have in store for him.

Meantime, the news spread far and wide that the murderous bandit, “Chaparral George,” had been captured, and an excited crowd soon gathered in front of the post-office, discussing the chances of his “swinging” at an early date.

“Swing!” exclaimed a tall, bearded pros- pector. “Not much.. The rope ain’t twisted thet’ll swing George Barnwell. Why, boys, he’s as slippery as a Greaser horse-thief, and a derned sight luckier. Look at him over in Au- rora; didn’t he slip through there on an alibi? And not three days ago, in Mammoth City, he and that_other old thief, Fogle, put up a habeas corpus job, and he got clear as slick as oil, when they thought they had him dead in the door. Hang! No, sir. ‘Chaparral George’ knows a trick worth two of that, you bet. It’s two to one that he plays the Peterson game on you, and walks the streets of Montezuma a free man in twenty-four hours. He says his name’s Roger Peterson, and that he lived here several years ago.”

“T knew Peterson when he lived here,” re- marked one of the crowd; “he went away dur-