The shades of night had just settled over the town upon the evening of our arrival, when Abe, our hostler-guide, came running to us with information that "Honest Rombeaux," another of our hostlers, was being hung by some of the citizens. The locality which had been selected for this little diversion was a railroad trestle a short distance below the town. We were already acquainted with the penchant our Sheridanites had for hanging people. Thirty or more graves on the neighboring hill had been pointed out before sundown, as those of persons who had fallen under sentence from Judge Lynch. In the expressive language of the citizen who volunteered the information, there had been "thirty funerals, and not one nateral death." Now that Judge Lynch had opened court at our own door, we proposed to raise the question of jurisdiction. Armed, at once, we set off for a rescue, and, stumbling through the darkness, had gone only a hundred yards or so, when we met the lynchers returning. At their head, with a very dirty piece of rope around his neck, walked our hostler, trembling all over, and chattering broken English rapidly, in mingled fright and anger. The leader of the party told us that the evidence not being quite sufficient for hanging, an extra session of court had been called to be held immediately, and as having some interest in the case, we were invited to seats on the jury. The trial, we were further informed, was to be held in Rombeaux's own house. This last was a new surprise, for reasons to be explained presently. Rombeaux had been with us ever since leaving Hays, and had gained his title of "Honest" from a particularly faithful discharge of duty. To him had been intrusted the supplies for hired men and horses. Three of the Mexicans he had severally thrashed for stealing. Once, in the night, on Silver Creek, we had heard a rattling at the medicine-chest, and trembling for our limited stock of spirits, stole forth to catch the culprit. On his knees by the open box was Rombeaux, replacing the brandy-bottle, and we feared that he, too, had become a thief. But just then, on the still air, came words of thanks to the Virgin Mary, for having enabled him to awake in time to frighten away the robber. Nor was this all; in the fierceness of his indignation, we beheld him sally forth immediately afterward, and kick a sleeping Mexican out of his blankets, on suspicion. Thereupon, we went back to bed with implicit faith in Rombeaux, which had followed us ever since. Had he not told us, moreover, of a vine-covered cottage in France, where pretty Marie watched and waited until her lover could earn dowry sufficient to match hers? It was the old story. A maiden fair tarried in Europe, while a true knight ransacked foreign lands for fame and fortune; and long since had all of us, save Sachem, exhausted our stock of spare change to hasten the reunion.