THE REFERENDUM 



471 



THE TALE OF A MOUNTAIN LION. 



BY H. P. DICKINSON. 



I had been over in the Pinal Mountains in 

 Southern Arizona, looking up some mining 

 property for a couple of Eastern men, and 

 after getting through it occurred to me that 

 my friend Bob Ross had a ranch within a 

 day's ride of where I was and that by going 

 only a few miles out of my way I could spend 

 a day or so with him and still get back to 

 Denver in time to meet my principals. 



I had a good horse and knew the country 

 well, so I broke camp just before day on a 

 delicious Arizona morning and headed for 

 Bob's little patch of civilization. 



The trail was a rough one, leading up to 

 the top of the range and along the crest of 

 the divide, but shortly before sunset I worked 

 my way down into the canon that led to the 

 ranch and half an hour later I rode in 

 through the big gate. 



Bob's establishment was peculiarly sit- 

 uated. He had located there before the 

 Apaches had been finally rounded up, and 

 built what amounted to a fort. 



Right in the heart of the range he found a 

 place where the canon "boxed" ; that is, 

 where in the final adjustment of nature's 

 disturbed forces, a mountain had risen up 

 directly in the path of a valley, shutting it 

 off and forming walls on three sides. 



About a quarter of a mile from the rear 

 wall Bob had built a high stockade clear 

 across the canon, which at this point was 

 only about fifty yards wide, and as there were 

 three or four good springs inside the enclos- 

 ure, besides trees, grass and other useful 

 things, his position was unusually secure. 



Near the centre of the open space he built 

 his house, modeling it after the old-fashioned 

 block houses, while above the roof rose a 

 square cupola made of heavy logs like the 

 rest of the building and having its four sides 

 pierced with loop-holes at convenient inter- 

 vals. 



Of course in these peaceful times such pre- 

 cautions are needless, but it isn't so very long 

 ago that they were necessary and more than 

 once Bob and his men have spent the night 

 in that little cupola. 



Since the Indians quieted down life at the 

 ranch has moved a good deal smoother, and 

 Bob's affairs have prospered in no small de- 

 gree. 



The big gate now stands hospitably open, 

 and there are a dozen or more picturesque 

 log cabins scattered about inside the enclos- 

 ure, part of them occupied by the men, sev- 

 eral of whom have families, while the others 

 are reserved for visitors, drawn there by 

 Bob's wide popularity and reputation as an 

 entertainer. 



As I rode up to the house, heralded by the 

 usual vociferous greeting from a congrega- 



tion of dogs, Bob came to the door to wel- 

 come me. When he saw who it was he 

 jumped off the porch and fairly dragged me 

 out of my saddle, kicking the dogs right and 

 left, while he squeezed my hand till it 

 ached. 



There wasn't any doubt about my welcome 

 anyhow, and as I swung down off my horse I 

 was glad I had come. 



After a hearty supper prepared by Bob's 

 Chinese cook, we went out on the porch, lit 

 our pipes and told each other what had hap- 

 pened in our respective lives since we last 

 met. 



Bob did not often leave the ranch at this 

 time of year, but his recital showed that for 

 various kinds of excitement he didn't have to. 



I have spoken of his dogs. He was a con- 

 noisseur in these, and had some fine ones, 

 chiefly greyhounds and Scotch staghounds. 

 Several were lying on the porch and I no- 

 ticed that two or three of them were badly 

 cut up. 



I spoke of this and Bob laughed. 



"Those dogs," said he, "are sure monu- 

 ments to the funniest thing that ever hap- 

 pened on this ranch ! 



"You know, son, I occasionally have to go 

 to El Paso. Last fall, after th' round-up, 

 I was over there an' one night I met what 1 

 took to be absolutely th' tenderest tender- 

 foot I ever saw. It was in th' Weldon hotel, 

 an' I was just gettin' ready to go up to bed, 

 havin' nothin' else to do, when a bunch of 

 pilgrims was unloaded from th' bus, havin' 

 been beguiled into ridin' those three blocks 

 from th' Golden Limited station an' th' hotel 

 on account of not havin' any well-formed 

 ideas of distance. 



"My particular tenderfoot was young an' 

 gentle an' seemed considerable tired. He reg- 

 istered as 'J. Henry Loomis, Chicago,' an' 

 th' first thing that attracted my attention to 

 him was his exceedin' lonesomeness. He was 

 so quiet it seemed to hurt him, an' stood 

 around like he was afraid of himself, so, af- 

 ter wastin' a lot of pity on him at long range 

 I sort of interested myself in him an' by an' 

 by we naturally gravitated down to th' com- 

 missary department in th' basement, an' he 

 told me quite a number of things about him- 

 self. 



"Seems he was th' only son of a rich man, 

 but, as subsequent events proved, that hadn't 

 spoiled him th' way it does some. He finally 

 disgorged th' information that he hadn't been 

 out of college long an' that his father wanted 

 him to go to Europe for some travels, but 

 J. Henry, bein' somethin' of a patriot him- 

 self, figgered it out he'd rather see his own 

 country first, so his family, while wonderin' 

 at his perverted taste, had filled his pockets 

 full of money an' turned him loose. 



"After becomin' satiated with th' rural de- 



