A cowboy detective

Shooting of Ancheta—I Join the “White Caps” of New Mexico—Taken Down with Smallpox and Given Up to Die.

After getting rid of Tim W., we furnished a new home and started to housekeeping again. Mamie and little Viola had returned from Springfield, Missouri, but the doctors had little hope of saving my wife’s life, as both lungs had become affected.

Owing to the sickness in my family, I was not sent out of the city on long operations.

During the fall my stubborn bump and quick temper came very near landing me in the penitentiary. It shows how a man’s whole life can be changed by a mere hair’s breadth. Gamblers call it luck, but I would call it chance.

Mamie was at death’s door and I had been sitting up with her night and day. It was Saturday, and I went down to the office to draw my week’s salary and to ask Mr. McParland if I couldn’t remain at Mamie’s bedside until she got better.

With the salary in my pocket, I started home by way of Laramie street, so as to get old Colt’s 45 out of “soak.” Being short of cash I had pawned the pistol for $20.00 to H. Solomon of the Rocky Mountain pawn shop, and in its place I was carrying a small pistol belonging to operative Frank McC.

Next door to the Rocky Mountain pawn shop a chemical factory had blown up and it was reported that a dead man was being brought out by the police and firemen. The police had ropes stretched to keep the crowds back, and a special policeman named Rease, was guarding the front door of Solomon’s pawn shop and wouldn’t let any one inside for fear a raid would be made on the valuable diamonds in the window and show cases. Being refused admittance, I stepped up on an iron railing to get a better view of the dead man who was being brought out. Just then young Solomon told me to get down and move away from the front of their shop. I told him to go to Hades or some other seaport. Then the big double-jointed special policeman pulled me down and tore my coat almost off. My gold-headed silk umbrella was broken all to pieces over his head and when he reached for his gun mine was pulled out of my hip pocket and pointed at his heart and the trigger was pulled. While using the umbrella on the fellow’s head, other policemen rushed at me. Just as the trigger was pulled, a policeman by the name of Ball, threw both arms around me from the rear. His right hand grabbed the pistol and the hammer came down on his thumb instead of the cartridge, thus saving me the expense of a trip to the penitentiary, for had he been killed, it would have meant a trip “over the road.” The sharp hammer had buried itself in his thumb, so I was told. I saw him many times afterwards, but never made myself known to him.

By main strength and awkwardness, six policemen put me in the “hurry-up wagon,” and I was taken to jail, coatless, hatless and an umbrella less. That evening I was liberated by Chief of Police John Farley, after Mr. McCartney had come to see me. This ended the matter after old Colts 45 was taken out of “soak,” and I had tried to round up my hat and the gold head of my umbrella, but they had vanished.

Poor Mamie died in my arms early in the winter as I was holding her at the window to get fresh air. Her suffering had been something awful and our physician, Dr. Herman H. Martin, shed tears when the end came. This was a surprise to me for I didn’t think a doctor could shed tears, as they become so accustomed to great suffering.

Mamie’s aunt, Mrs. Will F. Read, formerly Miss Emma Lloyd, of Shelbyville, Illinois, one of nature’s purest and noblest women, came out from her home in Anna, Illinois, to comfort my wife in her last days on earth. When Mrs. Read returned to Illinois, I let her take Viola along, as she had no children of her own and begged so hard for the child to raise, as I had no way of caring for her.

Shortly after the breaking up of my home, I was sent to Santa Fe, New Mexico, to work for the Territory. I was the only operative in the Denver office who was familiar with the Mexican language, hence this operation fell to my lot.

It was in the early part of February, 1891. The Territorial legislature was in session at Santa Fe, the capital, and one night armed assassins fired into the law office of Mr. Thos. B. Catron, where the executive committee of the senate was holding a meeting.

The men who did the shooting were on horseback and rode up to the glass-front office building on the ground floor and fired. It was late at night. One charge of buckshot struck Ancheta in the neck and another lodged in some law books on a table lying in front of Mr. Catron. The books saved his life. One rifle bullet barely missed Ex-Governor Stover, then a Territorial senator.

A fierce fight had been raging in the legislature over a free public school bill which had been introduced by Ancheta, an educated Mexican, and was being fought by the Catholic church. The legislature had appropriated $20,000.00 as a fund to run down the guilty parties. Rewards were offered and a committee of three was appointed to handle this fund. On this committee were the governor, L. Bradford Prince, the attorney-general, Edward L. Bartlett and territorial senator, Thos. B. Catron, all being leading Republicans.

On my arrival in the oldest city in the Union, and the cradle of “Ben Hur,” I had a consultation with Gov. Prince, and later with the other two members of the committee. I was made familiar with all the facts in the case, even to a peculiar track made by one of the horses ridden by one of the shooters in running over the frozen snow and slush. One hind hoof of this horse dug up the dirt in a peculiar fashion, showing that the hoof was crooked.

John Gray, the city marshal, and a crowd had followed the tracks of these horsemen to the junction of two roads, one leading to Las Vegas and the other to the Cow Springs country. Here all trace was lost.

I was told to work on the “White Caps,” and if possible, join their order, as there was no doubt about members of that lawless gang being the guilty ones, and that possibly the whole organization was in the plot.

During the last election the “White Caps” had carried the county of San Miguel, Las Vegas being the county seat, and elected to the legislature one of its leaders, Pablo H., who had just finished serving a sentence in the territorial penitentiary at Santa Fe. My mind was soon made up to win the friendship of this ex-convict member of the legislature, and through him join the “White Caps.”

The sheriff of Santa Fe county, Francisco Chaves, was a member of the “White Caps” organization and by spending money freely with him, we became fast friends.

One night on our rounds in the “hurrah” part of the city, we ran into Pablo H. and his gang of friends. Of course, I was introduced to the gang, and we proceeded to “whoop ’em up.”

A few days later the legislature adjourned and by invitation from Pablo, I was a passenger with him on the train for Las Vegas. In Las Vegas, both the old and new towns, I was introduced to all the “White Cap” friends of Pablo H., among them being his two brothers, Judge Jose and Nicanor, the latter being a fine-looking specimen of the Mexican race, with jet black wavy hair, reaching to the shoulders; but the fierce determined expression on his face portended evil for his enemies.

Days passed into weeks and Pablo and I became inseparable. We consumed much bad liquor and ate many fine meals in swell society at the Montezuma hotel, six miles from Las Vegas, at the Hot Springs. The only thing to worry me was a fear that H. H. Pierce, of the Stock Growers’ Journal might give me away. I had been introduced to him by my old friend Lute Wilcox, of the Field & Farm in Denver, Colorado, a couple of years previous, and now he recognized me and I had to trust him to keep my identity a secret. The county clerk, Rox. Hardy, who had been elected by the “White Cap” vote, was his running mate, and I feared that Pierce might tell the secret to him and the chances are he did. I afterwards found out that Rox. Hardy was a friend to the “White Caps” for revenue only, so then I had no fear.

I had an old-time friend in the new town of Las Vegas by the name of “Nick” Chaffin. He owned a livery stable in partnership with a Mr. Duncan. He didn’t recognize me as we had not met before for twelve years. The fact that I went by an assumed name, C. Leon Allison, threw him off his guard when Pablo introduced us one night.

Seeing “Nick” brought back memories of early days in the Panhandle of Texas. I was dying to make myself known to “Nick,” so that I could “hark back” to a time in 1877 when he got me to ride a wild horse for him. This horse gave me a new kind of a ride and thereby impressed “Nick” Chaffin’s photo on memory’s tablet.

I had faith in Mr. Chaffin not giving me away intentionally, but the rules of my agency forbid making ourselves known where there is nothing to be gained by so doing.

I finally bought a horse and saddle and one night when Pablo H. had to attend an important meeting of “White Caps” near the Mexican town of Tecolote, about ten miles from Las Vegas, I went along. Pablo and I had been drinking considerably that day, as I wanted him to feel gay when the time came for him to start, so that he would invite me to accompany him, which he did. Each of us carried a bottle of whiskey as we galloped over the hills to Tecolote. We rode up to a large adobe hall standing on a hill, solitary and alone, about 9 P.M. The light of the candles inside could scarcely be seen owing to the heavy curtains over the windows.

I felt a little shaky for fear that Pierce might have given me away and that this might be a trap set to murder me. I suggested to Pablo that as I was not a member of the order, I remain outside. This was done for effect, but Pablo insisted that I was his friend and wherever he went I should go. Pablo gave the secret knock at the door and it was opened. Seeing a “Gringo” stranger entering at Pablo’s heels, the guard tried to stop me, but Pablo, being a powerful man, brushed the fellow to one side and cursed him in Mexican.

In the rear of the hall several new members were being initiated into the “White Cap” order, which had a charter from the Knights of Labor and pretended to be a branch of that organization merely for effect. My presence in the hall came near starting a riot. The master-workman ordered me put out. Pablo put his hand on his pistol and told the crowd to stand back. Then he made a fiery speech, such as he had lately made in the legislative halls at Santa Fe. He soared to the sky in his Spanish eloquence and told how he had bled and starved for their noble order and how he would suffer his eyes to be plucked out rather than bring a man into the lodge who couldn’t be trusted. The large crowd of rough looking Mexicans and half-breed Indians were carried off their feet by this speech and they cheered loudly. The master-workman put a motion before the house that the rules be suspended and I be initiated into the order. It was carried.

The half dozen candidates still stood in the middle of the hall forming a circle and holding each other’s hands. They seemed frightened. Pablo led me over and breaking the circle, he placed my hands into those of two Mexicans, and thereby patched up the broken circle. In the center of this circle strange chalk marks were made on the floor. They all represented something. The ceremony was started anew for my benefit. It consisted of weird chanting and gestures and sworn pledges to give up life if necessary for the good of the order or a brother in need. This last clause proved hard on my territorial pocket book as later I found hundreds in need of a drink.

I was the only “Gringo” (American) member of this lodge and I felt highly honored. Most of its members were “Penitentes,” the religious fanatics who whip themselves with cactus and inflict all manner of cruelties upon themselves. In this county they were 2,200 strong, and most of them had joined the “White Caps” and ruled in politics.

The “White Cap” order had been formed for the purpose of cutting fences and even killing stockmen who fenced large tracts of land. They traveled in large bands, wearing white caps on their heads and on their horses’ heads. The horses were also covered with white sheets at times. The leaders finally turned it into a political order to frighten voters into voting the Populist ticket. Some men who opposed them were murdered. I was let into their secrets of the past. One pitiful case was where they murdered a poor Turk because they thought he was a detective.

For quite a while I lived with Nicanor H. on his ranch near Tecolote.

In attending other lodges and visiting brother members in Moro county, I saw many cruel scenes performed by the “Penitentes.”

I spent some time visiting with Col. Blake and his family at Rociada, in Mora county. I knew Col. Blake in White Oaks, New Mexico, in 1880, but he failed to recognize me. He was a strong Populist and hence sympathized with the “White Caps.”

I satisfied myself that the “White Caps” had nothing to do with the shooting of Ancheta at Santa Fe. I then bade my “White Cap” friends goodbye, and left overland for Santa Fe, a distance of about 80 miles.

Soon after this Pablo H. became an outlaw and killed men for the fun of it, so it was said. He was finally arrested and broke jail. While court was in session at Las Vegas, he got drunk and defied the court and its officers. This angered District Judge Smith and he ordered Billy Green, a fearless officer, to bring Pablo H. dead or alive, before his court. Green carried out the court’s order by bringing Pablo’s corpse before the judge. But this proved the doom of Billy Green. He and a companion were waylaid and killed later.

Nicanor H., soon after we parted, killed a man and was sent to the penitentiary. But after serving a short sentence he was pardoned and my old-time friend, former attorney-general of New Mexico, Col. Geo. W. Prichard, informs me that he is now living an honorable, industrious life in Las Vegas. His brother, Judge Jose H., died a natural death.

On my way over to Santa Fe, I traded horses. In the distance I saw a cloud of dust and two black objects cutting all kinds of monkeyshines. I hurried to the place and found a negro man trying to plow with a brown mare. The mare was wild and wouldn’t be hitched to the plow. The air was impregnated with cuss words and rivulets of perspiration were flowing from the negro’s manly brow. He recognized me as a brother “White Cap” whom he had met at one of the lodges. Then there was rejoicing. He asked me to help him hitch up the “d—— old mar’.” I replied that I was in too much of a hurry, but to accommodate him I would trade horses. He asked if mine would work. I told him yes, that he was hankering to get into that plow and tear up the dirt. With a grin on his face he called it a trade. His mare was much larger than my horse, and worth more. I didn’t lie to make this trade, for in Texas where I was brought up, a lie told in a horse trade is the truth.

Mr. “Coon” helped me saddle the mare and when I mounted her she bucked hard and wicked. Between jumps I could hear the negro’s loud laugh and now and then I caught a glimpse of his white teeth shining in the sun. We finally got straightened out and headed west in a gallop. It was a level stretch of country and in looking back all I could see was a cloud of dust where the negro and the bay bronco were having a tug of war. This horse had never had harness on. I never knew who won in this battle, the negro or the horse, but I could smell the brimstone from the cuss words thrown at me as long as I was in sight. Of course, it may have been imagination.

I arrived in Santa Fe after a hard ride. I thought a hard ride would take the “buck” out of the mare, but it didn’t, for next morning when I mounted her on one of the main streets of Santa Fe, she bucked hard. In this bucking match my pistol flew out of its scabbard and was picked up by Cooley Beaver, thus starting a friendship which has lasted to this day.

After a meeting with Gov. Prince, I left for Cow Springs, the end of the other road which the assassins might have taken. It was at the junction of this and the Las Vegas roads where the trail had been lost on the night of the shooting.

Cow Springs is a long day’s ride from Santa Fe. It is an out-of-the-way place and consisted of about a dozen Mexican families who had small farms and ranches. There was only one brother “White Cap” in the settlement. His name was Eustaquio P. He was a good fellow and we became warm friends. The balance were all republicans.

I lived with Francisco G. and his family.

Before being here a week I found that I was on the right track. I located the horse with a peculiar hind hoof, and to satisfy myself I went after cattle one day with the owner of this horse, which was his pet, and I examined the tracks. The crooked hoof threw up the dirt exactly as described after the shooting. I also found out that the owner of this animal, with other relatives of his, were in Santa Fe up to the night of the shooting. In fact, I satisfied myself that here lived the guilty parties.

Two weeks after my arrival in Cow Springs, we had a “big time” which broke the monotony of living on chili and other Mexican dishes.

It was Sunday and the Catholic priest came from Santa Fe to christen the new bell in the small adobe church. We all turned out and met him several miles from the settlement. We returned riding ahead of the priest, singing and playing musical instruments. Sixto G. had a violin and he led the procession. After the new bell was put in place, five cents was charged to ring it once. I spent about $1.00 ringing the bell. Quite a purse was collected. Even little babies at their mother’s breast forked over a nickel to ring the bell.

Soon after this we received word that a Mexican woman had died from smallpox out in the hills and that there was no one to bury her. A crowd of us took shovels, etc., and struck out to do the job. In the house lay the corpse and by the side of two little twin babies lying on the floor with nothing but a sheepskin under them, sat the father feeding the babies. He had nothing to feed them with but dried raw beef which he would chew up and stick in their mouths so they could suck the juice out of it. Their little bodies were parched and cracked open from the smallpox. The winking of the coal-black eyes and the movement of their lips were the only signs of life left in them. After burying the woman I got a box of salve from my saddle pockets and greased those little babes from head to foot. It was a pleasure to see them smile and their little eyes wink. It no doubt relieved their pain.

I had no fear of catching the smallpox, as I had it in 1882 in Texas. On that occasion I had to ride 200 miles to a doctor and had to sleep out at night in rain with no covering but my saddle blankets. Therefore, you may know that I could sympathize with these babes. I had always heard that a person couldn’t take smallpox more than once, but I know better now. Gen. Smith’s son-in-law, I am told, died in Santa Fe the third time he had it, and doctors tell me that a case is on record where a man had the disease eight times. I know positively now of one poor d——l who had it twice.

On our return to Cow Springs we sent a nurse and food to those sick babies, but they died a few days later.

Shortly after the burial of the woman, I got sick with a burning fever. Late in the evening I started for Lamy Junction, the nearest store, a distance of 12 miles, to get a bottle of Carter’s little liver pills, my favorite remedy when feeling badly. I secured a room in the Harvey hotel and taking a dose of pills, went to bed for the night. Next morning I felt worse and was burning up with fever. Still I had faith in a few doses of the pills curing me, so I concluded to return to Cow Springs.

After saddling my mare I dreaded to mount her, as her vicious bucking which she always practised after a night’s rest, would be painful to my already aching bones.

I was sitting on the steps in front of Charlie Haspelmath’s store holding the mare by the rope with my face buried in both hands to ease the severe headache. Just then a big drunken Irish car repairer for the railroad company came along and asked me to please give him a ride on my horse, as he hadn’t been on a pony since coming west. Forgetting all about my headache and looking up with a smile, I handed him the rope. The mare stood still until he was seated in the saddle, then business started with a rush. Seemed to me as if the Irishman stayed up in the air long enough for birds to have built a nest in his coat pocket. I heard afterwards that he lay in the hospital quite a while. The mare went flying over the hills towards the southeast, dragging the long rope. I hired two Mexicans on good horses to stay on her trail and bring her back. She was found fourteen days afterwards twenty-five miles from Lamy, just about starved to death. The rope had wound around a tree. The saddle was gone.

In the evening the train started for Santa Fe, and I was one of the passengers. On arriving in the city I had a hack take me to Mrs. Aaron Gold’s rooming house, where I had formerly roomed. She had two nice daughters, Rebecca and Zepora, and I had found it a pleasant place to live.

I was a very sick man, but kept on my feet long enough to slip into the Governor’s Palace after dark to report to Gov. Prince. He was absent from the city, so Mrs. Prince, his wife, informed me. She entertained me in her elegantly furnished parlor for a couple of hours, so that I forgot about being sick. It was a treat to have my high-heel cowboy boots buried in Brussels carpet after being so long on dirt floors. But I smile even to this day when I think of how good Mrs. Prince would have stampeded had she known that I was at that moment burning up with a smallpox fever.

That night I slept very little and by the next morning I was beginning to lose faith in Carter’s little liver pills. I had already taken half the bottle and still the fever was growing worse. Despite my suffering, most of the day was spent writing reports. Late in the evening I went to bed and sent for Dr. J. H. Sloan. While waiting for him Miss Zepora Gold came and sat at the head of my bed and with her beautiful girlish face and sweet voice, cheered my drooping spirits, but it wasn’t for long, for when the doctor came and pronounced it smallpox she stampeded.

It was raining hard and Dr. Sloan told me not to listen to the pleadings of Mrs. Gold and her daughters should they try to have me moved in the rain, as it would cause my death. I sent for my old “White Cap” Mexican friend, Francisco Lechuga, to come and nurse me. As Dr. Sloan was slow about returning, I became impatient and sent my nurse after Dr. Harroun. He also pronounced it smallpox and advised me not to be moved in the rain.

After dark Mrs. Gold and Zepora pled with me from a distance through the partly opened door, to vacate my room before the other roomers learned of my presence, as they would all leave. I could resist the pitiful pleading of Mrs. Gold, but not of the pretty daughter. I thought of the countless numbers who in past ages had given up their lives at the command of youth and beauty, and why not I? So I consented to be moved if a place could be found for me.

In the course of an hour Mrs. Gold returned saying that she had found a place at the house of Diego Gonzales, but that I would have to pay $3 a day for a room and board; that they would wait on me during the day, but I had to furnish my own nurse at night. I agreed to this.

Soon a hack drove up to Mrs. Gold’s and throwing a quilt over my head I walked through a pouring rain for about 100 feet to where the hack stood. An hour later, when Dr. Harroun found me in my new quarters he was angry at me for moving in the rain. By this time I had broken out with sores from head to foot, and I was “swelled up” like a Chicago alderman.

About four or five days later, Dr. Harroun came to see me at about 8 P.M. as usual. He felt my pulse and then began walking up and down the floor with a worried look on his face. I could still see through a corner of one eye which hadn’t swollen shut yet. I knew there was something wrong, so I asked for an explanation. The doctor sat down by the head of my bed and taking hold of my hand, told me that I couldn’t live till morning, as my temperature had been up to the highest pitch, either 105 or 107, I forget which, for four or five days, which was the limit; that my vital energy would be burnt out before morning. He advised that if I had any word or will to leave, that I attend to it then. I made him promise that he would keep the matter of what he was to write down a secret; and that not a soul but himself should know of it until after my death. I got him to write down a last farewell to my mother and relatives, but didn’t tell who they were, nor where they lived.

Before leaving, the doctor left some medicine for me to take every ten minutes. He instructed my nurse, a strange young Mexican whom Francisco Lechuga had sent to work in his place that night, to stay awake and give me the medicine regularly. Then the doctor shook hands with me and departed.

After the doctor had gone, the band began playing in the Plaza, and we could hear shouting and firing of cannon. The sleepy old city had woke up that day from her 300 years’ slumber. An election had been held, and it was voted to incorporate and have a city government. This music and noise was to celebrate the event.

After giving me the first dose of medicine, the nurse asked if he could go to the door and hear the music. I consented, with his promise to be back in 10 minutes so as to give me the medicine again. I had overlooked the fact that he was of the common peon class, and that free liquor was flowing like water down town.

The Gonzales house covered nearly half an acre of ground, and the family lived across an open court in a different part of the residence from my room. They had gone down town to the rally after turning me over to the nurse before the arrival of the doctor, hence they knew nothing of my dangerous condition. On returning at midnight, they went to bed.

After enduring a burning thirst for an hour or two, I tried to get up to find a drink of water and call for help, but failed. I was swelled up like a barrel, and every inch of my body even to the soles of my feet and the inside of my throat was covered with sores. In lying so long on my back, these sores had become calloused, but on undertaking to turn over on to the fresh sores so as to try to get up, I would scream with pain and fall over on my back again. By this time I was good and angry at my nurse for his long absence, and I surmised the truth of his long stay. The only consolation that I had during the night was the satisfaction of knowing how to curse in the Mexican language, for fear that the god who ruled over this truant son of old Montezuma might not understand my English swearing.

After my anger had cooled down somewhat, I began to think of dying and wondered what kind of a reception I would receive on the other shore from whence no cowboy detective has ever returned.

Towards morning I could hardly get my breath, and I was suffering the torments of hell. This I thought meant the approach of death and I cried at the thoughts of being dragged off by a lot of cheap peons before my body was cold, and thrown into a smallpox grave. Then, for the first time, I realized the satisfaction of being buried by loving hands and having flowers strewn on our graves.

When the cry was over my teeth were set and I made up my mind not to die. I was determined to fight off death with all the energy left in me.

Next morning at 7 o’clock the doctor was the first one to come. He was as tickled as a little boy with his first pair of pants, when he saw I was alive. My temperature was down to 101, and he said I was safe.

For the next two weeks I suffered greatly. Most of the time I was compelled to lie flat on my back, as turning over on to the fresh sores which had not been hardened through contact with the hard corn-shuck mattress, was too painful. These sores seemed to have melted and all run together, forming one solid scab from head to foot.

Diego Gonzales and his good wife had two daughters, Braulia and Delfina; also some little grandchildren by a son, Perfecto, and they all made it pleasant for me while recovering. The baby grandchild, Manuel, spent half of his time playing in my room. Catarina, an adopted daughter, also did her share towards making life worth living.

It was the first part of July when Francisco G. came in from Cow Springs in his wagon and took me out home to where my bucking mare was waiting for a tussel with me. She hadn’t been ridden since that drunken son of Ireland struck the earth on his head, and she had recovered from that hungry spell while fast to a tree for a couple of weeks. After buying another saddle, I gave the mare an opportunity to practise her favorite game. I finally traded her off though, as I had tired of her “monkey business.”

For the next month or two my time was divided between Cow Springs and Santa Fe.

I received a partial confession from the Mexican with the crooked hoof horse, also other evidence that convinced me of the guilty parties who fired into Catron’s office; but I was never able to satisfy myself positively, as to the motive, though I think it was done to kill Ancheta and Governor Stover for their part in helping to pass a public free school law for the Territory. Of course it could have been done by these few religious fanatics without the sanction of the Church, even though the priests and Church officials did fight Ancheta and Stover, “tooth and nail,” through their representatives in the legislative halls.

The chances are the Borreago gang of “bad” men—four of whom were hung for murder in Santa Fe a few years later—had a hand in the Ancheta shooting. For, in visiting Santa Fe with any of these Cow Springs suspects we would always call on the Borreago boys. There seemed to be a deep friendship between the two families.

On laying the matter before Governor Prince and General Bartlett, I advised that the suspects be arrested, as I felt sure one or more would become frightened and make a full confession. But this was decided not advisable, owing to the chance of failure, which would injure the Republican party, the suspects being members thereof. I believe in taking chances in such matters, and “sink or swim.” The chances were favorable for a confession, had they been jailed under the impression that we knew all of their secrets. Of course it may have resulted in opening old sores in New Mexico politics, which I knew nothing of; for, in Spanish-speaking countries, politics make strange bedfellows. It was decided best to drop the matter and discontinue the operation.

It was early fall when I took my departure for Denver. I hated to leave, as I had found the climate of Santa Fe the finest that I had ever been in. The summers can’t be beaten anywhere, and the winters are better than most places. In fact, I liked it so well that I made up my mind to build a permanent home there, and with that end in view I secured a tract of land a short distance from the outskirts of the city and christened it the Sunny Slope Ranch.

During my eight months in sunny New Mexico on this operation, I saw much of the Mexican people, especially of the lower classes. I like them as a whole, and would like them still more if the blood of their Spanish sires could be eradicated so as to do away with their cruelty to dumb animals. As a whole, they are a hospitable, law-abiding people, although their gait is not very swift, except when they fill up on the rotten, poison liquors which are manufactured in local cellars cheaply, for this class of trade, by Jews and so-called Americans of the money-grabbing races.