A WESTERN STORY.

Evening Star, Issue 6481, 24 December 1883, Page 4

A WESTERN STORY.

The genuine American desperado is now almost a being of the past. That lawless society of miners, living in its atmosphere of blue shirts, slouched hats, and six-shooters, has gradually been transformed into a less adventurous and more civilised community. A collection of wooden shanties may stili be called a city, and may still be deserted at an hour's notice. But it is no longer inhabited by bands of rowdies and roaring swashbucklers. The "road agent" and border ruffian still remain, but they are cold-blooded iu their misdeeds, and are warmed by none of the romance, which made their predecessors famous. All we have left are Bret Harte's dramatic pictures of wild camp life and the rude Cymonsof the Calif ornian gorges, If the painter of Western manners were td shoulder his blanket, sling his six-shooter in his belt, put his note-book in his pocket,

and go in search of fresh adventures, he would never discover another " Poker Flat." A few weeks ago one of the last of the old free-living devil-may-care frontiers men met his end in a drunker fray at Monterey, a small town in Mexico. He had been drinking hard during his visit; a trifling dispute with the police arose; he was remarkably "handy" with his six-Bhooter, and could see straight enough to kill the officer for presuming to dog his footsteps. The officer's own weapon unfortunately went off in his fall, and the bullet lodged in his opponent's leg. He was immediately surrounded, and, after holding his enemies at bay for a few seconds, covered with wounds, was at last overcome, and died a few days afterwards. It is an episode from his life which we have to tell. Some fifteen years ago Jeff Miller was a State ranger, stationed at a remote frontier post town* Every man carried his life in his hands. There was clanger from friendaud foe alike. Tne Comanches and the Lipan Indians were masters of the surrounding territory, and could swoop down at any moment upon the littlo town. Rough miners, unkempt trapper,?, desperate gambleis, constituted the society of the frontier post. The pleasures of this cheerful community were chiefly taken at a casino, where a ball washeld every night. Thediscordantelement appeared in "St. Louis Sail," a "fresh and dazzling blonde." At the casino she swept everything before her —ranger, rowdies, gamblers, fell her victims. Before twenty-four hours were over one of them was shot for her coquetries. She never drank, she never swore, which was unusual. Eventually Jeff Miller, the ranger, fell in love with "St. Louie Sal," attracted by her charms, physical and intellectual. One night what is called a "dramatic incident" took place. Two cowboys (a desperately unpicturesque compound), mad with post whisky and Sal's eyes, set to. The six-shooters of the two combatants "leaped from their scabbards," and were "elevated with a simultaneous click." The fair cause of the difficulty screamed with terror, and threw her white arms about the neck of one of the men. "Don't quarrel," she cried. "Don't."

Then one of them struck her to the ground, and shot his opponent dead. Turning round with the smoking pistol in his hand, he was confronted by Miller, who shot him.through the head with admirable coolness. Jeff lifted the unconsciouß woman in his arms and carried her to a little adobe house close by. The next day the hero and the heroine of the adventure settled down to domesticity in a small " jocal" on the outskirts. Both of them mended their ways. She gave up the delights of the casino, he forsook the post whisky. He was very kind and tender to her, and she loved him with that unselfish, hungry affection which a dog has for his master. He stopped play and never drank, and one day an old acquaintance, who was drunk, sneeringly advised him to "take to preachin'." Society was surprised, in fact, but silent, for Jeff Miller was " handy " with his firearms. And so matters went on for a while, much to the benefit of both. One night Miller arrested a " rustler," whose friends attempted a rescue. He shot one man, and was fighting his way to the door of tho saloon, when a friend of the prisoner covered Miller with his revolver- He was a dead shot, and Jeff would have probably been either killed or badly wounded ; but just as the gambler's finger pressed the trigger a woman Bprang between them, and when the smoke from his pistol cleared away "St. Louis Sal" lay on the floor all bathed in blood. This was so unexpected that the ranger and his prisoner were forgotten, and Jeff got outside the saloon with him safely. (It does seem a little odd that Jeff should have troubled about his prisoner at such a moment.) Cocking his six-shooter, he rushed back into the saloon with " blood in his eye and revenge in his heart," Sal's murderer had fled, and they had lifted her up and placed her on a billiard-table. Jeff threw himself beside her. •* Genuine tears flooded his eyes as he bent down to kiss her, and his voice trembled when he whispered her name." "Speak to me, little queen," he said. : She opened her eyes, and they were flooded with a great warmth of love. She held out her hand and he raised it to his lips. " It'll soon be over, Jeff,"she said faintly. " I have always been true to you since that night, and now you know that I love you." It cost her a great effort to say this, and a spasm of pain contracted her face, She made a sign, and he lifted her up and placed her arms about his neck. "Kiss me, Jeff," she whispered, and when their lips met hers were already damp with the dew of death. He continued holding her there, but she never spoke again, and died in his arms. He buried her under a big pecan tree just back of the little jocal, where she used to sit on pleasant evenings singing and sewing, and at the head of the mound set up a rude stone cross, on the face of which ho chiselled deep the two words " Little Queen." He never spoke about her afterwards, but he began to drink again, and quitted the service, "I did not see him again for years," says the teller of the story. He always expressed a desire to " die with his boots on, and as will be seen from the iragedy at Monterey, he had his wish.-* •Pall Mall Gazette.'