away. A moment after, the supper-bell rang, and he entered the hotel pondering upon the strange accusation of the mountaineer, little dreaming that the first strand of a terrible rope had been twisted for his neck; that from this period in his struggle with his destiny, the diab- olism of human machinations, combined with the natural results of a life fraught with misfort- une, conspired to crowd him from time to eter- nity.
That night, about half past ten o’clock, Peter- son was aroused from a troubled slumber, and ordered by a gruff voice to arise and dress him- self. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the glare of two bull’s-eye lanterns, he ob- served, standing at his bedside, three broad- shouldered men, wearing slouch hats and over- coats, and holding heavy navy revolvers in their hands.
“Come, George, the game’s up. Get out ’o that, an’ mighty lively, too, or we'll haul you out,” remarked the foremost of the invaders.
“What’s the matter?—what’ve I done?” asked Peterson, in a half plaintive tone.
“T guess you know what you’re wanted for,” answered the spokesman; “but so’s there won’t be any mistake, I’ll inform you that I’m the Dep- uty Sheriff of Esmeralda County; you’re ‘Chap- arral George’ (at least, that’s our information), and you’re wanted for stage robbery. There’s the warrant. Shall I read it?” and the Deputy Sheriff drew a folded paper from his pocket and proceeded to open it.
“You needn’t trouble yerself,” answered Pe- terson, as he dressed himself; “if I’m ‘Chap- arral George,’ it’s all right; if I ain’t, it’s all right.”
“T guess it is,” was the laconic reply of the officer.
The remainder of the night was passed by Peterson in the town jail, and the next morn- ing he was taken before a Justice of the Peace to answer a charge of robbery. He had no dif- ficulty in proving, by two teamsters in Aurora, that he had made two trips from Carson as a freighter, and the keeper of the hotel produced his register to show that he had always signed as Roger Peterson. But this was not proof sufficient to satisfy the vigilant authorities of Esmeralda, and he was remanded to the custo- dy of the Sheriff until more positive evidence could be obtained from Carson. Two days afterward the necessary depositions were re- ceived: one from the freight agent stating that at the time of the robbery Peterson was in Car- son, and others making affidavit that Peterson was, “to the best of their knowledge and belief,” the right name of the prisoner. Peterson was accordingly discharged from custody; but when he entered the corral, where he had left his team, he found another teamster “hitching up.” A few inquiries elicited the facts, that although he was not George Barnwell, alias “Chaparral George,” the stage robber and desperado, yet, by being arrested as that individual, a taint naturally rested upon him, which precluded his employment in the responsible occupation of a freight teamster. Valuable packages were oft- entimes smuggled into the teams, without the knowledge of anybody except the forwarding agent and the teamster. Another “fall” had been scored for Fate, and Peterson picked him- self up and prepared for another tussle. Ob- serving that he was regarded with suspicion in Aurora, he counted his scanty coin, calculated how long it would last him, and began his jour- ney to Mammoth City. It was a long, weary tramp, but he plodded on with dogged deter- mination, and finally reached his destination, footsore and worn out. Almost the first man he met accosted him familiarly as “George,” and, with a sly wink, asked him where he had left the rest of the gang. For the first time in the memory of man, Peterson became imbued with a combative spirit. He knocked the man down, and kicked him until a crowd gathered and dragged him off. The fact that a prison cell circumscribed the freedom of his move- ments shortly after the affray with the stranger did not disturb the sullen equanimity of Peter- son’s mind, and when Henry Fogle, the wiliest lawyer on the western frontier, entered his apartment, he took no more notice of him than if it had been his jailer bearing his evening meal. He simply turned his dull, expression- less eyes upon the cynical countenance of the attorney at law, and then began mentally enu- merating the cracks and crevices in the wall be- side him.
“And this is the man they call ‘Chaparral George.’” There was an implied sneer in the lawyer’s tone, although the words themselves were thoroughly commonplace.
Peterson made no reply.
“Peterson.” Fogle assumed the persuasive method as being best adapted to the condition of the prisoner.
“That’s me. Whatd’ ye want?” Peterson’s reply indicated that he regarded his visitor with the most perfect indifference.
“You don’t want to lie in a place like this fifteen or twenty years, do you?” The lawyer seated himself beside the prisoner, and twirled his fingers, as if the consummation he had con- jectured was a foregone conclusion.
“Don’t expect to lay here that long,” answer- ed Peterson, still apparently counting the cracks and crevices.
