in, Colonel George Baylor, the famous Captain
of Texas Rangers, chided Fountain for not wearing a cord to fasten his
pistol to his belt, as then did all the Rangers, to prevent its loss
from the scabbard in a running fight; and he finished by detaching his
own cord, and looping one end to Fountain's belt and the other to his
pistol. Then Fountain bade his old friend good-bye and boarded the
train with his prisoner, taking a seat near the centre of the rear car.

When well north of Canutillo and near the site of old Fillmore,
Fountain rose and passed forward to speak to a friend who was sitting a
few seats in front of him, a safe enough proceeding, apparently, with
his prisoner handcuffed and the train doing thirty-five miles an hour.
But scarcely had he reached his friend's side, when a noise behind him
caused him turn--just in time to see his Mexican running for rear door.
Instantly Fountain sprang after him, before he got to the door the man
had leaped from platform. Without the slightest hesitation, Fountain
jumped after him, hitting the ground only a few seconds behind him but
thirty or forty yards away, rolling like a tumbleweed along the ground.
By the time Fountain had regained his feet, his prisoner was running at
top speed for the mesquite thickets lining the river, in whose shadows
he must soon disappear, for it was already dusk. Reaching for his
pistol and finding it gone--lost evidently in the tumble--and fearing
to lose his prisoner entirely if he stopped to hunt for it, Fountain
hit the best pace he could in pursuit. But almost at the first jump
something gave him a thump on the shin that nearly broke it, and,
looking down, there, dangling on Colonel Baylor's pistol-cord, he saw
his gun.

Always a cunning strategist, Fountain dropped to the ground, sky-lined
his man on the crest of a little hillock he had to cross, and took a
careful two-handed aim which enabled Rio Grande ranchers thereafter to
sleep easier of nights.

And now, just as I am finishing this story, the wires bring the sad
news that dear old Pat Garrett, the dean and almost the last survivor
of the famous man-hunted of west Texas and New Mexico, has gone the way
of his kind--"died with his boots on." I cannot help believing that he
was the victim of a foul shot, for in his personal relations I never
knew him to court a quarrel or fail to get an adversary. Many a night
we have camped, eaten, and slept together. Barring Colonel Fount