The country side were
gathered to witness it. The owners of the horses had made large wagers
on the race. Outsiders wagered money and livestock to a large amount.
There were a number of strangers present, which was nothing unusual.
As the race was being run and every eye was centred on the outcome,
a stranger present put a six-shooter to a very interested spectator's
ear, and informed him that he was a prisoner. Another stranger did the
same thing to another spectator. They also snapped handcuffs on both
of them. One of these spectators had a peg-leg. They were escorted to
a waiting rig, and when they alighted from it were on the line of
a railroad forty miles distant. One of these strangers was a United
States marshal, who for the past month had been very anxious to meet
these same gentlemen.

Once safe from the rescue of friends of these robbers, the marshal
regaled his guest with the story of the chase, which had now
terminated. He was even able to give Eldridge a good part of his
history. But when he attempted to draw him out as to the whereabouts
of the other two, Peg was sullenly ignorant of anything. They were
never captured, having separated before reaching the haunt of Mr.
Eldridge. Eldridge was tried in a Federal court in Colorado and
convicted of train robbery. He went over the road for a term of years
far beyond the lease of his natural life. He, with the companion
captured at the same time, was taken by an officer of the court to
Detroit for confinement. When within an hour's ride of the prison--his
living grave--he raised his ironed hands, and twisting from a blue
flannel shirt which he wore a large pearl button, said to the officer
in charge:--

"Will you please take this button back and give it, with my
compliments, to that human bloodhound, and say to him that I'm sorry
that I didn't anticipate meeting him? If I had, it would have saved
you this trip with me. He might have got me, but I wouldn't have
needed a trial when he did."

XII

IN THE HANDS OF HIS FRIENDS

There was a painting at the World's Fair at Chicago named "The Reply,"
in which the lines of two contending armies were distinctly outlined.
One of these armies had demanded the surrender of the other. The reply
was being written by a little fellow, surrounded by grim veterans
of war. He was not even a soldier. But in this little fellow's
countenance shone a supreme contempt for the enemy's demand. His
patriotism beamed out as