Occasionally Harry White came over to visit us from
his ranch five miles away. He lived with his old mother; he and Jack
were dear friends. Harry needed a wife, Jack used to say, winking at me.
One day Jack went to Denver for supplies. He went alone, and coming home
later than usual, Ted and I and baby Mame went out to meet him. Jack
looked sober and guilty, and seemed ill at ease. If he ever drank, I
should have thought him intoxicated. In the wagon was a queer-shaped
heap under a horse-blanket. I was sure it moved. When we got behind the
barn Jack said, sheepishly, avoiding my eye.
"Well, Ted, I calkerlate I've got su'thing in that there waggin that 'ul
astonish yer marm."
Little Mame pulled the blanket off the heap; she had been peeping under
it all the while she was in the back of the wagon. There lay a human
being. Such an object; short and squat, dressed in a queer blue blouse
with flowing sleeves, wide trousers and queer wooden shoes. He had
small, black eyes, a shaven poll, from which depended a long thin queue.
His countenance was battered and bruised, his clothes torn and bloody.
"There was a row down to Denver," said Jack; "the Christian folks stove
in these 'ere heathen's winders, tore their houses down, an' killed half
on 'em.
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