The Frontier, May 1926 — page 65: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE the side of Marshall, who was covered with blood, The ranger went over the still form that lay on the floor. “Yes, your partner’s hit, pretty hard,” A moment later he said, “He’s dead. I guess that bullet caused his death, but the blood didn’t come from his wound.” Then, lowering his voice, “He was a lunger, wasn’t he?” Clell nodded. “I thought so,” continued the ranger. “It’s murder, just the same, and will be the finish of this gang, We've been trying to catch them with the goods for a year. It is a regular organized business. They have filed on claims like this all along the foot- hills, A tenderfoot comes along; some member steers him to one of the claims, telling him it can be bought for a song. He buys it, and then the gang runs him off, By this time, they had walked to the door. In spite of the battle and of Marshall’s death, Clell was thinking of another matter, “What about that claim on Little Bowlegs?” he asked. “That,” replied the Ranger captain, “was another one they used. The land is worthless, but there’s plenty of water, and the green settler grabbed it. Fellow by the name of Mosby worked it, They hadn’t bumped a sucker for months, and we thought they’d quit. Then a few days ago a man named Spradley came to us with a tale about trading for Mosby’s claim and afterward being run ragged until he left it. Then we heard somebody was plowing the claims on Big Bow- legs, and hurried up here. Clell said nothing. He was pretty sure Spradley knew all about the claim on Little Bowlegs, and had intended to bump him with it, but had been caught in his own net, Come morning, and the Rangers helped Clell bury his late partner on a bit of rising ground at the edge of the valley. “Now, Mr. Berry,” said the Ranger captain, “we'll pay you to take your wagon and haul this quiet gent, who was wanted dead or alive, Gray Hoss and the other cripple, and the three sound ones, down to headquarters.” “You can take the team and bring it back,” said Clell. “I don’t want to leave here just now.” “Don’t blame you much. We'll send the team back, and also a split out of the reward money.” “Just send the team. Don’t think WATERS OF BOWLEGS CREEK I could use any money I got that way,” said Clell, T WAS midafter- NY noon. John Mar- shall’s old brown violin lay silent in its case. Clell had looked through the dead man’s meager effects. There was nothing but some odds and ends of clothing and a book or two. Nothing to identify him. No former address. From a little bunch of keys found in Marshall’s pocket, he fitted one to a leather-bound, trunk-shaped valise and opened it. Here, Clell expected to find papers that would tell whom to notify of his partner’s death. What he did find was a single sheet of pa- per. The last will and testament of John Marshall, dated the day before and written in ink, in a clear hand and scholarly language. It left his wagon and team, his interest in the claims, and all his earthly effects to McClel- lan Berry. Clell folded it reverently and placed it in his pocketbook for safe keeping. Whoever and whatever Marshall may have been, there was no evidence now. A little heap of paper ashes in the fireplace, evidently made the day be- fore, and unnoticed by Clell until now, bore mute testimony of the man’s thoroughness. Clell was thinking, sadly, that they had buried him almost before he was cold, when a shadow fell in the cabin door. He started violently, and turned to see the tear- stained face of Jenny Tatum! “Wha—what’s the matter?” stam- mered Clell, “Fa—father’s d-dead!” Jenny sobbed, as she sank to a proffered camp stool. Then she sobbed out her story. Old Ranse had spells in which he fell and became unconscious. A doctor had told her once it was caused by clots on the brain and that some time it would kill him. That morning he had fallen, and in spite of all her efforts the old prospector’s spirit had gone to investigate the “little pocket” in an- other land. When she had rested a while, Clell took up his pick and shovel and si- lently led the way up the gorge. There was nothing to say. At least, his tongue was not schooled to say the things that might be said, so he used the true language of sympathy—si- lence, 55 In a little cove, above the garden, under a juniper tree, Clell made a grave. Then he took up, tenderly, the emaciated body of the broken old prospector, and laid it to its last long sleep. When the last shovelful of earth had been replaced, they returned to the cabin, and sat in the doorway as the sun sank in the west. Jenny told him she had no one to go to, no relatives, no friends. Her mother, who had died when she was twelve, had taught her many things; among others, to be a true woman. After her mother’s death, she had gone from place to place with her father. The last four years, they had lived in this cabin, spending sparingly of the proceeds of the “little pocket,” of which Ranse was always talking. It was about gone now. Their last trip to the little mining town, thirty miles over the range, had almost cleaned it up. “T don’t want you to go to anybody else, Jenny,” faltered Clell, but——” “I know, Clell. You’re thinking about a preacher, and everything reg- ular, like that. I been thinking about that, too. We can make a trip down to the settlement and get married reg- ular, so people won't talk.” “Another thing, Jenny. When I drilled the holes for those blasts, I didn’t think about anything but getting water into Big Bowlegs. If I ever fire them, there won’t be a splinter left of your cabin——” “That’s all right, Clell. I won't need it any more. I’m going with you. Wait until I put a few things in a bag, We'll get the rest before you fire the blasts.” Together they went back down the gorge in the purple dusk. The team came back and a week later the fissure in the dam was closed. A mighty thunder of blasts shook the mountains, and the waters of Bow- legs Creek changed their course. Lit- tle Bowlegs was a dry gorge after that, and Mosby’s worthless claim be- came a barren spot of mountain. Old records of Yavapai County, running back to early territorial days, carry the information that McClellan Berry and Jenny Tatum were duly married on a certain date, approxi- mately that of the great blast. Down where Bowlegs once sank into the sand, there is now a great reservoir, and many hundreds of acres of fruit and alfalfa, but Clell’s old claim on Big Bowlegs was the pioneer, and still yields its crop of green gold. Gomilcbooksacom