lose this narrative without a further reference to the boy,
Eugene Jones. During the first two weeks of the campaign my eyes became
badly affected from the dust and glare of the sun, reflected from the
white alkali plains on the head of Crooked River. At times I could
scarcely bear the light, which seemed fairly to burn my eyeballs. From
the first Eugene had attached himself to me. He would insist on taking
care of my horse in camp, and often would stop at a spring or stream and
wetting a handkerchief would bind it over my eyes and lead my horse for
miles at a time. At Murderers Creek, too, he was the only man to follow
me when I made the dash after the Indian horse herd. Another thing I
observed about the boy was that I never heard him use an oath or a
vulgar, coarse expression. What then was my surprise on arriving at
Prineville to find a letter from Sheriff Hogan of Douglas County telling
me that the boy, Eugene Jones, was none other than Eugene English, a
notorious highwayman and stage robber. He was a brother of the English
boys, well known as desperate characters. I was stunned, perplexed. The
Sheriff asked me to place him under arrest. But how could I do so, after
all he had done for me? It appeared in my eyes the depth of ingratitude.
In my dilemma I laid the matter before Judge Frank Nichols of
Prineville. I related all the boy had done for me, and asked him what,
under like circumstances, he would do. "By George, Colonel, I would not
give him up. It may be wrong, but I would not do it," replied the old
Judge. We then went to Mr. Brayman, a merchant of the town, and laid the
matter before him. He fully agreed with us that the boy should be saved.
I then went to the quartermaster, got a voucher for the boy's services,
obtained the money on the voucher from Mr. Brayman, and putting a man on
a horse, explained to him that he was to hand the letter and money to
Eugene, first having him to sign the voucher, or warrant, over to Mr.
Brayman.

The young man found the boy with the volunteers. He called him to one
side, gave him my letter as well as the money. He signed the voucher,
and that night disappeared and I never saw or heard of him again. But of
this I feel certain, if he fell in with the right class of men he made a
good man and citizen. Otherwise, otherwise. Do you blame me, reader? I
have never felt a regret for what I did. Put yourself in my place.

Chapter XIX.

Reign of the Vigilantes.

Every newly