STIRRING LIFE ON THE WILD WEST.

Otago Witness, Issue 2078, 21 December 1893, Page 5

STIRRING LIFE ON THE WILD WEST.

(Specialty written for the Witness Christmas

Number of 1893.)

By AJOR.

BILLY. Chapter I.

TBANSPORTED FOR " ME " MATE'S SAKE,

"We were astandin' havin' a partin 1 glass at the bar when a' at once a big row broke out," said my informant, who was one of a number of Berwick colliers who had just been paid, and had made a night of it at the Black Seam — an inn much patronised by the coalminers of this noted North of England town. «• I, Big Job (that's what a' the ither Geordies cad me by) just turned my head in time to see it. None on the others caw it but me, an' the man, Bob Honour — my own life's chum — that did it. Yes, there was though. There was Tom Brown standin' t'other side o' me ; for he afterwards swore as he saw me do it. Well anyhow, poor Ike got it full smash on the back o' th' head with the brandy bottle, an' he never spoke no more. Ido remember me now, I had my hands up at the time ; but, God bless you, it couldn't a' been me, although I had to stand my trial for it, an' came nigh swingin', all along of that there Tom Brown, too.

" Before the trial, my mate Bob came to m 9 in the prison, though, an' confessed a' with tears as big as marbles hoi din' down his cheeks : * Ah'd no thou't o' killin' 'im, Job, at the time, nuther afore nor after, but the cussed blow was in a bad place. Look ye here, lad, thou'lt not suffer for me. I'm goin' straight out o' this here cell to give myself up,' said Bob in a choked voice.

•' • Nay, thou'lt not,' said I, laying hold on him * Listen to me, Robert Honour. The thing's bad enough. I knew it was you as killed 'im.'but I wasn't goin' to split.'

" ' Ob, ho 1 ' blubbered the great giant, throwin' 'is arms around me convulsively. ' I knowed that, Job, I knowed that all the time. Nay, lad, thou'U not stop me,' added he half-fierce like, turnin' again to leave me.

" • One moment, Bob. See. if the f worst comes to the worst, an' I find I have to swing, it will be time enough for yon to come forward an' proclaim my innocance afore they get the rope around,' pleaded I, Bob hesitated awhile; a hard, stern, halfdespairin' look settlin' down on his face. Poor chap, be was one o' the gentlest, an' was never known afore to hurt a livin' thing, an' now all along o' the cursed grog, thought I, as he stood there irresolute. He was not lookin' at me, but at the grey stone wall o' my cell. Presently I went up, an' placln' my hand on his shoulder, said : " Look you, Bob — me that naas you — I knowed the thing were accidental, although the laws wouldn't give ye that benefit. See me ; I'm a single man, lad. No one cares a jot about me, an' you have the very young lass as wa both lo'ed,' concluded I, in a hoarse whisper.

••'Ah — ha I— ah — ha' — he quite broke down at this.

" ' Promise me thou'lb do nowt until ita a hangin' matter. For God's sake — for Mary's sake,' urged I again an' again, keepin' fast hold on his hand, an' watchin' the terrible struggle goin' on in bis quiverin' frame. Suidenly great Bob straightened himself: up, seized hold of both my hands, an' lookin' straight into my face said with terrible earnestness, but huskily : * Lad, we were both born t'gither ; brought up i' th' same house— a'most owned the same mither, an' ne'er tould each other a lie. But this is a hard thing ye aek, an' I canna' promise that. Na, na,' added he, shaking his head sorrowfully.

'• • Think of Mary, Bob — an' listen once more. I swear to send for you if the worst is to come I ' implored I now.

" • God blesß ye, lad ! For Mary, then 1 ' groaned he at last. He wrung my hand, an' was gone, an' when the noise made by the turnkey lockin' my cell door had ceased, I heard poor Bob go slobberin' like a child, whose little heart might be a'most a-break-in\ 'down the corridor of the great black prison house — a corridor I knew I too should some day soon go down to the last sight o' th' sun, an 1 then — but it was a' fcr Mary.

" But bad as it then looked it didna' turn out a hangin' matter. I stood my trial, an' owin' to the lawyer chap bamboozlin Tom Brown in the box I got off in bein' transported for 12 years to Tasmania, an' never saw Bob again, leastwise after he visited me the night afore I was pub aboard the transport. Mary an 1 he both came to say farewell, an' when it was all done (she now knowed all about; it) Mary Honour turned back in the cell and said : 11 May I kiss you, Job ? ' "

Such was the fragment of his earlier life as told to me by Job himself, 13 years later, on Shellback Gully one " smoke " time.

[THE CHKONICLER TAKES UP THE TALE.]

Chapter 11. Jabez Darby's Merrie Men.

" Old Sledge, Ohuckaluck, and Freezoout — Poker — Three-card Monte — School of Bunko — Double High Fives— The Widow, or Improved Cut-thioat — Arizona Jack — Keno and Lotto every evening," bo sang out the silvery voice of Billy, as I passed the black, muddy road towards the " Fancy Lead" on Shellback, What a sweet voice he had for a man, thought las I remarked : " Ha, Billy, still at it. Is the pace going to be hot to-night, eh ? " Billy shook his curly head half mournfully, I thought, and withdrew inside the American Merriclub, a red-hot gambling resort for lucky diggers, who there lost there " dust " frequently — I never met one that didn't — and on one or two occasions their lives.

Everybody liked Billy. Billy was bartender, waiter, and marker, all rolled in one, and often when gambling was at its highest pitch, and a dispute likely to end in deadly Strife, ha 3 Billy's calm blue eye and soothing voice stilled the storm of fierce looks and loud Invective. I have seen men here lashed into fury facing each other with naked knives xeady to plunge into their

gore, suddenly stop and shake a friendly hand at Billy's approach. One night when I strolled in the room was crowded, and looking round I saw them. Aye, there they were — four of them — over the new game, cut-throat eachre.. Three were playing, the other looking on. Big Van Diemen Job — boss of Shellback— played Sullivan and Burgess (whose names are familiar to my readers \ whilst Billy, close by Job, looked earnestly on. He nodded pleasantly as I lounged up, but I was also struck by his anxious look.

The fact was Billy was a puzzle to us all. In the daytime he was always wanderhog about amongst us at our claims, but offcenesc near to that of the next claim to mme — Van Diemen Job's. Job, rough and desperate aa he was, took to the girlish-like lad immensely, and Billy to him. What was between them we diggers failed to understand, and we all felt we had much too great a respect for our own individual bodily comfort to ask. Job would have simply demolished us. Until I found out the secret I had always put down their intimacy to one of two things — either that it was because both were Geordies, or else it was due to a meeting of extremes— Billy, all gentleness and good nature; Job, full of desperate ferocity and sullenness.

Well, this night these three worthies sat at it, at a little Square wooden table, and a heap of gold dust and nuggets in the centre, the same being the stakes. Sullivan and Burgess had ravolfers by them, and Job a knife — a regular bowie, though. Billy and I could see Job's hand every deal, but not a word was spoken after the words " Seven up" until the close of the game. (Billy afterwards told me this.) When I came up the game stood : Job 3, Sullivan 6, Burgess s—an5 — an awkward position for Job. He dealt, turning up the seven of diamonds, and his hand was the left bower, ace, and queen of trumps, and seven and eight of clubs. They passed, and Job went for a point. Sullivan played the nine of club 3, Burgess the ten and took the first trick, Job having the eight. Burgess then played the queen of clubs, which Job trumped with his ace ; but Sullivan over-trumped with his right bower and led bower of clubs, on which Burgess clapped the ten of trumps [" H—l,"H — 1," mutters Job], taking the trick with his queen and leading off his bower, on to which Sullivan clapped, with a grin, his king, followed by Burgess with the aca of hearts. Job here sullenly laid down his seven. "Buchrel" called Sullivan, plajing the eight.

" You lie ; you d d cheat ; you lie 1 " yelle"d Job, springing up and brandishing his bowie over him. Sullivan nervously fingered his revolver, but I could see the coward there.

Burgess quietly eyed the two.

Job raised the knife to strike, when he caught Billy's blue eye upon him, on which the whole man changed, and he shuddered a3 Billy's gentle voice said very soothingly, "Job, he," pointing to where Sullivan sat, white and shivering, " played his eight."

"Here, take it, Billy; I can'fc strike the coward," said he, handing over the knife, and both left the room arm in arm ; but I noted that while Sullivan raked in the gold his eyes followed Job's receding figure with a poisonous look; and which also seeing Burgess said with a half laugh, " Psha, don't mind Bully Job for the lad's sake."

" Well, as I have got big money, I won't,' replied Sullivan, pocketing the golden gains with a brutal laugh, and preparing to depart. " We, you mean," muttered Burgess as the two bushrangers — none of us knew of their vocation then — left the room, and Sullivan nodded.

That was the first suspicion I had of their cheating Job. I afterwards learnt the two brothers had stacked the cards for Job's special benefit. Burgess afterwards told me in his prison that that was a better way to get his money than by robbing and killing him, though Sullivan, he added, differed with him on that point.

Only forßilly'uißterfereace Sullivan would have ended his ciirtier at the hands of Job that n : ghr, and then young Do'agon, old Jemmy Battle, a in?, perhaps other victims of the gang might not Lave mat such cruel deaths. Burgess, referring to Billy with tears and that i<fl\ir, I old me in his cell that he had made ur» his mind not to interfere, •' and then," added he sighing, •' who knows, I might'nt have bet-w here to-day."

" Old Sledge, ChuckaJuck, and Freezeout" — Pokßr — Three-card Mom a — Schaol of Bunko — Donble H'gh Five? — she Widow, or Improved Cut-threat — Arizona Jack — Keno and Lotto," croaked »ow a hoarse voice outside of the den. The gambling diggers all raised their heads, looked inquiringly at' me, then ona of them, jerking hi 3 thumb in the direction whence proceeded the sound, grunted oafc, " That's old Jabea Darby. Where's Billy ? " " Gone with Vandy Job," answered another cautiously, looking round the room, and we saw no more of Billy there that night. The next time I saw him he was a different Billy. Poor Billy 1

Chapter 111. Billy's Last Signal.

It might havf been about 3 o'clock ; my mate and I had just put in a false settp, and I was at the bottom of the shaft preparing to ascend when the light was suddenly darkened above and at the same instant a voice called loudly to me : "Job's smothered ! "

Needing no explanation, I climbed quickly up the shaft, but on getting to Job's claim I found over 50 diggers round the mouth of the tunnel. A man was lying on his side breathing heavily, and insensible; aglacca showed me he was Job's mate. They told me Job had dragged him out of the foul air, which had suddenly filled the claim, and had run back to fetch out his other mate, but as he had not reappeared another man, with a, rope end round his waist, was now in after Job, and that if he too felt himself getting overpowered he was to give three jerks on the rope. We now all anxiously watched the rope being dragged into the poisoned darkness by this last rescuer. Presently it ceased paying out. " There's the Bignal, lads ; pull away," I roared, and we commenced hauling the rope hand over hand, and when it fetched him out at length, the rescuer was black in the face and half stupefied. He had gone in until the light wouldn't burn, but had jerked the rope before becoming overpowered by the poisonous a,ir which had filled the tunnel from the working, but had not come on Job. What was to be done 1

Would Job be dead by this time ? "No man can live in that air," remarked Will Barton, whom he had just dragged out. Another digger was fastening himself to the rope, whilst another had sped off to Gorden, the blacksmith, for a brazier of live coals. Some cried one thing, some another. Suddenly all became silent. Someone came tearing over the tailings. All looked in the direction.

"Billy I" ejaculated all with startling emphasis. I was standing by the tunnel mouth peering in and inwardly praying Bill Martin might not come too late with the red coals, when finding a convulsive grasp laid on my shoulder I looked up just in time to see Billy, wild-eyed, rush past me into the death- dealiug tunnel ; I grabbed at him, but my hand only clenched in air; I bad missed him, and straining my ear to catch his retreating paces a sound came back to me out of the darkness. It was a half-choked sob — and it said, " J-o-o-b-b 1 "

" Would to God Bill was here I " I must have said that aloud, for I was agonised, as indeed we all were at Billy's mad rush into certain death.

«• Here's Bill— make way for Bill with the fire I " sang out everybody. The next instant Bill was at my side. I was stripped to the waist ready when he came up.

" Take care, Dick," gasped he, handing me the pan of fire and sinking down exhausted. Ho had flown every inch of the way. Graspit; g the pan-handle I went away backwards into the drive, . the red coal glowing as I went and drawing the good air after me. My journey seemed to me to occupy hours so much did I crowd into those thrilling minutes. Presently my heel came up against something soft. Just as I turned, my ears were assailed by an awful crash and roar away ahead in the tunnel ; the next instant I fait a rush of cold air blow past me towards the tunnel mouth. The red embers glowed brightly iv tb.B pan, and a little jet of flame shooting up showed me Billy and Job face to face — kueeling, and tightly locked in each other's arms. Billy's eyes were wieie open, and raised to the tunnel roof as if in supplication. I spoke — I touched him ; but he moved not, nor answered. I tried to separate them — might as well have tried to pull apart an iron vyce. Then everything swam, and I sank down beside them with a groan of anguish ; then I had a dim consciousness of rushing feet, flashing lights, and anxious voices. The first thirig I now clearly remember was a Btrcng voice at my side saying :

" Dick will pull through at any rate."

Rousing up the sound I saw I was out in open air, and Doctor Z laughing in my face. " Where's Bill and J-a-o-b ? " anxiously articulated I, springing to my feet. 11 They have just bsen carried to the American Mericlub," said he sadly.

•' And how are they ? " asked I, with sinking heart. The doctor paused, eyeing me curiously, and sucked the extreme point of his right forefinger ; then I knew the whole truth. " Come and see them," presently said he, kindly. As we went, he added regretfully : «' I could have sworn Billy lived when we first got you all out."

On nearing the place I saw it surrounded by diggers, many of them actually crying — all much moved. Recognising in me Billy's nearest friend, they .made way for me in Bilence. When we entered the gambling room a few diggers stood uncovered round something on a rug on the floor. The circle opened at our approach, and I saw the something. They had not parted them yet. Billy's face was towards me, and I thought for an instant I was back in the tunnel. The doctor whispered huskily: "I gave orders not to disturb the corpses until you had seen them." I pressed his hand and was just turning away almost overpowered when my eye became arrested by the approach of a man with a dark, bushy beard. He came near, removed his slouched hat, gazed steadfastly at Billy for some seconds, and, as he turned to go, a great teardrop started from his eye and fell down on Billy's upturned face. That man was Busoess 1

And so poor Billy was dead. He had flown to the rescu3 of his greab ferocious friend Van Diemen Job, and died in that last signal. After the funeral they had just finished telling me how the good air had cocae so opportunely for me by a " run " from the surface into the tunnel, when someone touched me. It was the doctor, and he motioned me apart from the group, and whispered into my astounded ears "Billy was a woman ! " " Great God, doctor I " " Yes," said he, •• when I laid them out I saw that. Look here, Dick," added he with something like a sob, " you seemed to be the nearest friend, next to Bully Job, poor Billy had — and you had better take charge of this," continued he, handing me a little book. " I found it in Billy's breast pocket, and have read it through. If you do likewise it may explain many of the mysteries which surrounded that strangely-assorted pair in life, and which you and I used to talk over. 11 With a wave of his hand he was gone.

Chapter IV. Billy Clears up the Mystery.

The little book the doctor gave me proved to ba Billy's diary, and I now give ib to the reader exactly as I got it. It runs as follows: —

Diary of Mary Honour, of Berwick, England, widow of the late Robert Honour, and for whose sake and mine good Job Sydney Carlson innocently suffers transportation across the sea.

Friday, March 24, 1854.— Since we returned home from seeing poor Job away in the transport ship, Robert has done nowt but pace up and down the cottage, distracted. He cannot eat nor rest.

Saturday, March 31. — Husband Robert has neither eaten nor slept. He turns from food with loathing. He says he cannot forgive himself for allowing Job to suffer for him.

Sunday. — He is very weak to-day. I must call in the doctor; but he implores me not to do so.

Ten p.m., same day. — I have been watching since 6 o'clock. He now opens his eyes and motions me to him. He takes my bands (how wasted from the great, strong, horny hand he used to have 0 and after a lengthened pause, Bays :

" Mary Do you mind, lass, afore we wedd how fond you was o' Job an' I thout as hoar you was not for me — and I tould you 60?"

" Yes, husband ; I believe I loved you both at that time," answered I, tearfully, for I knew what he was coming to. After another long pause and some heavy sighs, he again said :

" You know what Job is sufferin', an' him so innocent. He'll have 12 long years of it, Mary."

" Yes, Robert ; but why talk of what can'fc be mended, and you so ill 1 "

" Bear up, lass, bear up ; it makes it all the harder for me to sea you so broken down."

There was another long pause, then he said:

_ " Mary, lass, I have only a few hours to live. Listen to me, lass, what I'm goin' to tell you. When I wedded you Job still lovedyou — with an honourablelove, mind you. He as much as could me that — an' he loves you still, lass, and I love him with all the love possible for one maa to have for another. When I'm gone, laas, the love of Job can be changed — honourably, too, mind you, lass, to that holy love we have between us, lass. It will be 12 years afore Job's free, lass ; the load Job's carryin' for me — an' for your sake — a'maist too heavy for him. The sacrifice he's made for me i 3 too great, for the thowt of its weight even has borne me down to the grave. Lass, dear lass, will you help to lighten Job's burden when I am gone ? Do you understand, lass 1 " concluded he, gaspingly.

" Yes, O yes, dear husband ; but you will live ! " said I, raining down tears of anguish.

"Mary," he again articulated, "knowin' what you know — f eelin' what your dear heart feels — could you wish me to live on ? There, don't sob, dear ; 'tis a hard matter for you, lass."

A rapid change now came over him, and I called in alarm to our wait girl to speed for the doctor. He lay back, motioning me close to him. I saw his lips move, and bent down to catch their import. " Promise," they said, and that was all. •' I swear it, dearest husband ; 1 swear it," cried lin anguish. But he heard me not.

Before the doctor came I knew Robert slept to wake no more this side of eternity.

The diary now showed a number of blauk laaves, but when I came to the next entry I understood the eloquence of thoEe unwritten pages, and I feel sure the reader will also if he follows me on. through the concluding entries. This is what they aay : —

Port . July 14, 1866.— 1 just caught a glimpse of him leaving the yard with the chain gang. O, how changed 1 He did not see me, and does not know I am in this terrible place. lam to see the commandant about him to-night. I hear he has been hard on him. How I pray God to soften his heart. Ten p.m. — Have just come from the presence of the stem commandant. He heard my tale with disdain ; told me in a hard voice Job was the worst of the whole gang ; that he and 20 other convicts had yet to serve her Majesty a matter of ten day?, and added with a grin, that as their time was so nearly up, he was sending them off to Sydney for a ship's load 1

July 15. — Job sailed this morning. I rushed down after the vessel had swung from the jetty, but only in time to wave him a farewell with a handkerohief. All the convicts stared at the unusual spectacle. Job was the rudest of all. O, heavens I he did not know me I I flew to the commandant, imploring him to stop the fast speeding craft and put me on board ; but he only laughed and ordered me away, with the surly remark that " D3sperado Job would probably be back within the time."

July 24. — I have counted the days — nay the hours — the very minutes. This ia the last day. Towards evening my heart beats. A vessel is descried in the offing. Nearer and nearer she comes. Alas lit is not the convict cutter ; but her captain brings news of her. She only arrived in Botany Bay the day the schooner left — two days ago— and as the convicts' time would expire before they could return, the schooner carried a letter of discharge from the authorities at Sydney, to b8 endorsed by the commandant at Pert " " after July 24, 1866. So that after 6 o'clock to-night. Job Sydney Carton, to comfort whom I, Mary Honour, crossed the seas, will bs a free man once more, and before I can cross over the narrow bit of sea to him he may be far enough. Even the commandant pities me; whilst the good captain of the schooner, learning my tale, promises to hurry his departure and take me with him.

Weather

July 26.— Sailed for Sydney, good and wind favourable. July 27. — Been blown oub of our course considerably. Spoke tbe good ship Oaleatria loaded with gold diggers bound for the West Coast of New Zealand. Something, I know not what, riveted my gaze to the crowds on that veeeel. Presently X gasped. A tall figure arrested my eyes. Ifc was — it was him ! 11 Job I " I screamed at tha pitch of my voice, waving my hands frantically to wards him as tha noble vessel eped away past on the wings of the rushing blast. My voic3 was drowned in the roar of a great wave which just then struck our little craft, and the crew and captain were too busy to notice me.

July 28. — Arrived at Sydney only to learn what my aching heart already knew. Job was no sooner released than he had determined to cast in bis lot with the diggers then being allured in thousands to the wonderful New Zealand gold coast, and left two days prior to our mooring in Sydney harbour.

August 2. — Have engaged a berth in the Alhambra, which sails to-night for Hokitikp. She's a fast boat, and the skipper thinks he'll overhaul the Celestria before she reaches her destination.

August 7. — We have jast sighted Mount Cook, the snowy peak of which is glistening under the setting sun. No sign of the Celestria.

August 8. — Cast anchor in the roadstead. There are scores of craft all around.'us. The Celestria, I am told! was towed over the bar yesterday. Here comes cur tender — tbe paddle steamer Yarra. We step aboard. We land on a jetty built on a low sandy spit. There are thousands of people about, all busy with one thing or another. Wooden houses are going up everywhere. Nobody

has any time to talk to me just yet, and so telling Captain B , of the tug, I will call presently for my box, I wander up a sandy street. I have, luckily, plenty of money, and stop opposite the first publichouse. It looks respectable. I read on a calico sign : "J. H. — Licensed to sell spirituous liquors. Good accommodation." I take up my abode there for a few days. August 11.— Whilst at dinner I heard a gruff voice in the bar hard by saying, " Vandy Job's gone to Ross 1 " I was eagerly interrogating the owner (an ex-convict) a moment after, and from him, much to that worthy's amusement, learnt all I wanted to know, I then being dressed up in the garb of a bank clerk.

August 13.— 1 have seen and spoken to Job. I, being in mala attire, he does not know me, although I noticed he started at the first sound of my voice. I will not tell him yet who I am, but must watch and pray for weeks.

October 10. — Have seen Job every day. He and two others — one of them Tom Brown— have a rich claim in the Terrace. Poor Job has taken to gambling sadly at the Ameiican Merriclub. I came here as waiter, marker, &c , for the express purpose of watching over him. I am gaining an influence over him ; he appears to be aware of it, and I often see its increase puzzling him. To-morrow (Sunday) we — Job and I, Mary Honour (who, unknown to him, lovea him with all the puro love of a woman) — are to have a lorjg talk. I have then determined to tell him ali.

That is Mary Honour's last entry. It must have been penned in the forenoon. That afternoon Job, Sydney Carton (the man who had borne the 12 years' fearful penalties in the Tasmanian chain-gang to save another man, and for the sake of Mary Honour, the unfortunate widow of the dead man, Robert HonouT, who had killed poor Ike in a drunken brawl at the Black Seam Alehouse, in Berwick, Cumberland, England, so many years ago), met at last in that vyce-like embrace which even Death himself could not them part.

The last entry, did I say ? No ; here is one more, written after a number of more blank pages, and on the very last one of that little book. This is what ib says, and it i?, perhaps, the most touching entry of them all:—

My_ Husband's Last Advice.— Should all fail to soften Job's heart, seared as it will be by the cruel files of the dreadful penal fetters of Tasmania, Robert's last injunction to me was : " Say to him our prayer — one aa Job an' I, an' you, Mary, said many a time at mither 's knee." Here it is, and I, Mary Honour, shall repeat it to Job Sydney Carton to-moriow : " Lord of Glory, once a poor carpenter's son, we na'as thee art yet like us, an 1 we can talk in Thee wi'out that shyness as comes to us when the coal maister be by. We na'as Thee'st gone down wi' us many times to the darkness o' the coalpit, cheerin' us to work honest an' hearty ; whisperin' that nowt harm can coni9 nigh us while Thou art by. We na'as we can lay out a' our troubles wi'out fear on a sneer ; an' it's only a' sympathy from Thee. As long as we works honest and straight and manly, we feel assured Thee stands by ua as a strong brither, an' it is only at the alehousea an' the grog Bhanties Thou winna come. There Thy kind heart be sad wi' us, for it is there a' the real trouble fa'as on us poor simple coalminers. What wi' the bad drink an' the cursin' and the swearin', Thee art driven in sorrow away from us. Ah 1 when that trouble overtakes us, Lord — the poor carpenter's son so long ago, yet still the trua> Friend of us to-day — don't leave us long to ourselves, but pull us out in thy strong brither's arms."

Just as I had finished reading the fore* going beautiful petition, the harsh croaking tones of Jabez Darby disturbed the still, starry night, and smote on my ear their horrid accents: "Old Sledge, Ohuckaluck, and Freezeout— Poker— Three-card Monte— School of Bunko— Double-high F yes— the Widow, or Improved Cut-throat— Arizona Jack — Keno and Lotto eya/y evening." I turned in, sick at heart, as I thought sadly of Billy that was gone. Never more would that silvery yoics call over in its mighty love for injured innocenca that dreadful list.