A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



his horses on the Denver speedway, under instruc- 

 tions not to let anything pass me. He had a genius 

 for mating teams with striking effects, producing 

 matched, mismatched, showy gaits and nobby turn- 

 outs. All his drivers dressed the part. When he 

 drove himself — and he often drove— it was worth 

 going to see. He was the best driver I have ever 

 known. Often when we spent the evening in his 

 office, he would grow reminiscent. I recall two of his 

 stories which may be of interest. 



During the war he was on secret service on some 

 important mission in Missouri, near Bee Creek. He 

 was captured by a band of guerrillas. It was nearly 

 dusk when they reached camp. He was turned over 

 to a drumhead court-martial. The trial lasted a few 

 minutes; the verdict was "Spy; penalty, death." 

 Turning to him, the leader said, "Yank, would you 

 rather be shot before or after supper?" To which 

 the captain replied, "I always did think a lot of my 

 belly," adding, "Say, 'Reb,' that dun hoss of yours 

 is the best I ever saw. Suppose you make it sunrise ; 

 I'd like to die looking at him." "All right," said the 

 "Reb" ; "come eat." At supper the talk drifted onto 

 horses, and the quality of the Missouri horse, then, 

 as now, their pride. "Reb," said the captain, "if 

 you ever miss that dun hoss you can just figure my 

 spirit has got astride and gone with him." 



They tied the captain to a log, with the "Reb" 

 on guard; the fire burned down to the faint glimmer 



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