CHAPTER IX 

 EWING 'S STORY 



As time passed speculation on our part concerning 

 Ewing increased rather than diminished. The 

 packer was without doubt a mystery. His face and 

 bearing, his manner and his diction, certain telltale 

 traits which stamped him as a man from another 

 sphere of life things incongruous with his assumed 

 character and present occupation whetted our curi- 

 osity and aroused an interest in his personality 

 which it was plain he by no means sought. 



Twenty times a day I puzzled over the matter. 

 What rash act, what error, or what misfortune, had 

 brought Ewing to this pass: A burro puncher at 

 sixty dollars per month, and prone to frequent in- 

 toxication? 



That was it, perhaps drink ! But then drinking, 

 until it becomes itself a disease, is so often merely 

 a symptom of some other, prior, deeper disturbance. 

 Ewing did not strike one as a dipsomaniac. He 

 seemed rather to make use of whiskey as a weapon 

 against the virus of ennui or against his own more 

 poisonous thoughts. 



No, I decided, drink alone was not his bete noire. 

 [What then? Often I itched to question him, but the 



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