"Well, you see, it was this way," she explained. "The smugglers broke camp long before dawn, and started south over the same trail by which you were approaching; they wanted to get over the summit before the Lipans or guards were likely to be stirring, for it was a point at which _conductas_ were often attacked. But shortly after sunrise, and just as they advance guard reached the summit, they discovered your party ascending, and, mistaking your uniformed soldiers for guardias, the leader lined a dozen of his men along the ridge, and opened on you, while his _mayordomo_ rushed the pack mules of the _conducta_ back down the trail they had come. Early in the fight they discovered you wore a party of _gringos_, and not guards, and decamped as soon as their _conducta_ had time to reach a point where they could leave the rail. "Had their goods not been at stake, they would have wiped you out, if they could, for the leader's brother got shot in the head of which he died the same day. Indeed, when the two men you left behind started to leave the country, he had planned to follow and kill them, but luckily Don Abran heard of it, and restrained him." And this explained the mystery why they had not flanked us! Brave to downright rashness, George Thornton lasted only about two years longer. The Winter of 1883-84 he spent with me on my Pecos Ranch. Early in the Spring he came to me and said: "Old man, if you want to do me a favor, get me an appointment as Deputy United States Marshal in the Indian Territory. I'm going to quit you, anyway. My guns are getting rusty. It's too slow for me here." "Why, George," I replied, "if you are bound to die why don't you blow your brains out yourself?"--for at the time few new marshals in the Indian Territory survived the first year of their appointment. "Never mind about me," he answered; "I'll take care of George. Anyway, I'd rather get leaded there than rust here." So I got him the appointment. A few months later, when the Territory was thrown open to settlement, Thornton homesteaded one hundred and sixty acres of land which early became a town site, and now is the business centre of the city of Guthrie. Had he lived and retained possession of his homestead, it would have made him a millionaire. But greedy speculators soon started a contest of his title. While this contest was at its height, one day Thornton learned some Indians living a few miles from the town were selling whiskey, contrary to Federal law. As he was mounting for the raid, having intended to go alone, a man he scarcely knew offered to accompany him, and Thornton finally deputized him.