So, he hung on there at Carson, but had sense enough--Lord knows where he got it--to put all but a few hundred dollars in Ben Levy's safe.

Then, he went out one night to play poker with his driver and a friend--had a drink or two--doped, probably, and never woke up for forty-eight hours--lost clothes, money, papers, and whole outfit--was just naturally cleaned out--couldn't get a trace worth following after.
You ought to have heard him cuss when he told me--it seemed to be the papers that bothered him most--them, and the mules." "You say there was no trace ?" "Nothing to travel on after forty-eight hours--a posse started out next morning, soon as they found him--when they got back they reported having run the fellows as far as Cimmaron Crossing--there they got across into the sand hills, and escaped." "Who led the posse ?" "A man called Black, I think," he said.
"Black Bart ?" "Yes, that's the name; so, I reckon you didn't bury Willis Waite this time, Captain.

You wouldn't have thought he was a dead one if you had heard him swear while he was telling the story--it did him proud; never heard him do better since the second day at Gettysburg--had his ear shot off then, and I had to fix him up--Lord, but he called me a few things." Keith sat silent, fully convinced now that the doctor was telling the truth, yet more puzzled than ever over the peculiar situation in which he found himself involved.
"What brought the General up here ?" he questioned, finally.
"I haven't much idea," was the reply.

"I don't think I asked him directly.

I wasn't much interested.