Ute Bill's Partner

Half way up the mountain wnicli overshadows Cheyenne canyon is a rude log cabin of only two rooms. Many ycars ago, when reports of the finding of gold drew men from every state in the Union, there appeared in this grand but desolate car.yon a man by the name of Rivers - Stanley Rivers, he said - who at once proceeded to erect a cabin for himself. This completed, he kept well within its walls when not actually engaged in prospecting. He located lus claim and went about it as readily as an old miner. The little town of Colorado Springs, four miles distant, was often visited by the minera when they had accumulated a little dust, but Rivers had never accompanied them on these occasional sprees, althougb they had often urged him to do so. A man in a mining camp who does not drink is considered, as a general thing, beneath the notice of the average miner, but it was not so in this case. Here he had the confidence and respect of the rough men gathered around him, and, by his gentle ways, boyish face and pleading blue eyes, had won every man over to lus sido. They no longer urged hira to go with them; they went, and respected him. There was not a man in all the camps around who would not have taken the part of the "tenderfoot," as they jocularly called him. And not only that, he knew it. His past was a blank, and he mildly resented all efforts to reveal it. On one occasion Ute Bill had presscd him too closely on the subject, and he reproved hiin by saying: "Bill, I tlünk you are a friend of mine, but I would rather hava you throw me down that shaft of yours than ask me to teil you my past Ufe. It is too painful." If the boys could have seen Bill then; if they could have looked upon him as he stood abashed before this slender, palo looking young man; he, who had killed his man; this "Indian cliewer," who had come out ahead in a hand to hand fight with a bear; this same Ute Bill, who íigurcd as a desperado in the country round for a hundred miles, they would have vvondered if he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. But they were alone, and in an humble voice he said: "Beg y er pardon, Mister Rivera, I didn't mean to hurt yer feelin's. I hev kinder taken a liken to ye, a sort of fatherly interest, and if ye say the word we'll be pards." The word was said, and great was the surprise in camp when the new partnership was announced the next day. What had come over Bill? Was he going to reform? It was a seven days' wonder, but gradually died away uutil it was no Jonger an attraction to see Bill's six feet of muscle and brawn towering head and shoulders above his delicate looking "pard" as they prospected the country. One day in their wanderings they found they had nearly reached the summit of the grand old peak at whose base flowed tho waters of the San Juan creek, when Bill suddenly uttered an exclamation of amazcment. "Look here, pard, we've struck it this time; chunks of it!" Rivers, who had been patiently clipping specimens off the ledges which jutted out here and thore, hastened to his side and looked. BUI had a piece of dark looking rock in his hand, and was turning it excitedly over and over, his eyes glowing like stars in his intense citement. The news spread liko wildflre through the camp. All the niiners were half crazy over the find, and deserted their old claims to search for new ones. There was no doubt of the vast wealth that lay in the mine which Bill and Ri vers had opened. It was a settled fact that the men had more money than they could ever realize beaming down on them as the mining ore should bo turned out. As the two men were lying on their rough beds in the little "cottage they talked of the future and its grand prospecta. Bill was full of enthusiasm, and pictured in glowing terms his highest ambitions, to be realized when he should count his thousands. He would be a congressman. What thrilling speeches he would make. He would have every word of them printed in the newspapers. He would own a fast horse, and the "boys" should have all the drinks they wanted; they should not go dry while he was on top of 6od. And lie stopped suddenly and looked at bis companion. "What's yer lead, ole pard? Will yer hang onto yer dust, or spend it like yer got it?" For a moment Rivers was silent. "I dare not think what disposition I shall make of it. I will probably go back east. My plans are not definitely settled," he finally answered. So the subject was dropped. Bill knew the quiet, retiring man at his side well enough to know all inquiries to be fruitless. So he turned over, and, after a few more words about the work of the morrow, he feil asleep. "VVhen the morning dawned Bill was up and stirring. Rivera slept late, and at last Bill thought he had better awaken liixn. As he shook him in his rough way he noticed the bright spots on lïivers' cheeksand his short, irregular breathing. "It is all right now, Lillian," murmured the sick man, tossing uneasily; "it's all right now. I've got the money to keep you where you should be." Sb tenderly, pathetically carne the words that the rough miner brushed away the tears as he listened to the hidden story of his "pard's" past life. He told it all in his delirium, and seemed to live the long years over; how he had loved this delicate girl, reared in luxury and ease, and when he lost the fortune he had so slowly accurnulated he dared not tel) her of his love. He would not ask her to share liis poverty and hardships. He had come away and staked his life and loro in the search for gold, and found it. Yes, now he could clasp her slender hand in his and give her all the riches he possessed in return. Over and over again he called her uame. Bill softly stroked the brown hair from his forehead, and as he did so Rivers said: "It is so soft- her little hand- it rests me to feel it on inv head." And he lapsod again nto a reatless sleep. "Durn tliat bis pawl" said RUI, looking at his rough, brawny hand, andthen at the white forehead on Ithe pillow. "And ther ato 't a woman's liand in the camp to fiz Ihings easy for him. I'd give the huil bizness if he was only out of this rmiss." But before two hours had elapsed there was a doctor from Colorado Springs bending over the eick man, and by the bedside 6at a palé, slender girl, watching with intenso interest every motion and word of the patiënt, and eoothing him with her little hands holding his. he came with the doctor. Bill stood inside the door, ad looked like a bashful schoolboy in the presence of this stranger, who seemed to be taking his place and caring for IUvers when lie ought to be doing so. But he asked no questions, and waited for the doctor's answer. "Just keep the camp quiet, Bil), and Miss Lancaster wiU give the medicine and see to the rest. He is worn out with. excitement, and a little quict, ith good nursing, will make things right. If the fever is no better in six hours let me know." And that was all the explanation BUI got from the doctor. Was she a professional nurse? Bill guessed so. And he thought how nice it would be if he could be sick when Rivera got well. The camp was stül- Bill had ordered it so - and every man asked how the "tenderfoot" was, and about the "gal." "Dunno," was all the answer they got to the latter question, and Bill told áll he knew when he said that. Rivers was in a serious condition, and before the six hours were up a horseman dashed out of camp and after a doctor. It was Ute Bill. He could not stand by and see him toss back and forth in bed. It was too much. He wasn't used to it. The doctor had to make anothcr trip - Bill said Rivers was worse. When the doctor had made an examination of his patiënt he declared the worst was passed, and left Rivers sleepLng quietly under a gentle narcotic. All this time the girl had not released her watch by the bedside, and she seemed to be soothing away the delirium of the fever in gently passing her hands over the sick raan's temples. Her eyes never left off their watch of every movement of the "tenderfoot's" face, and Bill stood by wonderingly, casting a furtive glance at the delicately featured face bending over 'lispard's pillow, and trying to solve the problem in his mind. Hours passed, and flnally, with a long sigh, Rivers oponed his eyes and looked at Bill leaning over the foot of the bed. Then his wandering attention was fixed on the anxious face by his side. There was no glad cry of recognition - it was a mutual understanding. All the warmth of his great love was expressed in the gently whispered name "Lillian," as he drew her face to his. Resting her head on his shoulders, she told him of the long years of waiting for tidings from him and the hasty letter from Omaha, which she liad only received a few days before. Siie had left home, friends, everything, and gone to seek him in the wild west, she knew not where, but she had found him. And Bill had disappeared. A few days afterward one of the "pards" gave up his claim to the little cabin, and the minister said the ceremony which linked two lives into a world of their own. Many and hearty were the rough congratulations. That evening the miners gathered at the little home to say a word of welcome to the beautiful young bride. Even if it were spoken by a big, rowdy rniner like Bill, there was a genuine ring of manliness about it, and made her teel quite at home in the wild, picturesque spot so far from every sign of civilization. As the men filed out slowly Rivers conducted his girl wife to the porch of the rude cabin, and, Btanding close by his side, she sang one verse of "Home, Sweet Home." The tender, sympathetic voice feil on the still night air with a wonderful sweetness, and awakened many old memories in the hearts of the rough, coarse miners gathered there. Heads were uncovered and there were tears wiped hastily away as Bill led them to the saloon. Vaa there rough talking and coarse jests now? No. As each man raised his glass a solemn hush feil upon the group, broken at last by Ute Bill's voice. It was choked and unnatural. "Boys," he said, "I never hed but one pard, but I give him up to the best pard a man ever got. And I'll never hev another till I get one like his." Bill eet his glass down and walked away abruptly. It was not long until the saloon was deserted and the camp hushed in the repose of night. After that Bill did not 6eem like his old self. He was quiet and solemn. He knew what was the matter, but did not care to let the boys know where the sunshine had fallen on his rough heart and then so suddenly been swept away. The next spring came, and the doctor made another trip to the little cabin. When Ute Bill went up the next day j Eivers led him into the aainty bedroom and gave him a peep at the tiny baby girl that had come that night. The big rough hand closed tightly over the one of a more delicate moid that was laid in his, and the two men understood each other. There were tears in Bill's eyes and an ache in his heart which no one butjRivers shouldever know as he turned silently away. The miners gathered again in the saloon to drink to the health of the mother and child, and hear Bill, now glowing with animation, teil about the baby and its queer ways until they all wanted to see the youngster. A Tote was taken, and the camp was to be christened after the baby, and Bill had forgotten to ask her name. Away he went, and soon turned. lie looked sheepish and finally came forward and said: "Boys, yer got me tliis time. They've called her 'Utella!' as near my name as they could get, and it's my layout. What'U yo hev?" The classes clinked merrily, and Mr. Bill beamed with happiness. Not a day passed tliat Bill did not visit the cottage, and as the wee babe grew to a toddling, lisping girl, Bill was her cbief sympathizer, and the bos in camp at last called him "Únele Bilí." "There's no harm in me lovin' her," he said one day as he stroked the curly brown head nestled against his breast; "the other wasn"t for tue." And Eivers glanced up quickly at Bill, and then to his wife, who was sitting by the doorway with her dainty iingers busy in mending a iittle frock. "It was before I knew" - and Bill swalI lowed the big lump rising in his throat and tri(d to go on, but his voico broke and he trembled in the vain efifort to suppress his emotion. Eising suddenly he lef t the cabin. That was years ago. The mining camp has disappeared and only the lonely cottage marks the spot where it once stood. Stanley Eivers lives with his wife and dark eyed girl in an eastern city and enjoys the wealth he made in the picturesque spot which now bears the name of Cheyenne canyon. Bill never married; he loved tho beautiful girl who sat by the bedsido of his sick "pard;" he loved the tiny babe who played upon his knéea and laid her soft cheek against his own. And when he died they found a Iittle faded Bhoe which contained a elip of paper. It only said: "Give all my dust to mj pard's baby." And Ute Bill, the roughest miner in the camp, was buried near the Iittle cottage in Cheyenne yon.