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Out Of A Pioneer’s Trunk
by
“But,” persisted Flint, “this never was my property. My name isn’t Fowler, and I never left anything here.”
The assistant looked at him with a grim, half-credulous, half-scornful smile. “Have it your own way,” he said, “but I oughter tell ye, old man, that I’m the warehouse clerk, and I remember YOU. I’m here for that purpose. But as that thar valise is bought and paid for by somebody else and given to you, it’s nothing more to me. Take it or leave it.”
The ridiculousness of quarreling over the mere form of his good fortune here struck Flint, and, as his abrupt benefactor had as abruptly disappeared, he hurried off with his prize. Reaching his cheap lodging-house, he examined its contents. As he had surmised, it contained a full suit of clothing of the better sort, and suitable to his urban needs. There were a few articles of jewelry, which he put religiously aside. There were some letters, which seemed to be of a purely business character. There were a few daguerreotypes of pretty faces, one of which was singularly fascinating to him. But there was another, of a young man, which startled him with its marvelous resemblance to HIMSELF! In a flash of intelligence he understood it all now. It was the likeness of the former owner of the trunk, for whom the assistant had actually mistaken him! He glanced hurriedly at the envelopes of the letters. They were addressed to Shelby Fowler, the name by which the assistant had just called him. The mystery was plain now. And for the present he could fairly accept his good luck, and trust to later fortune to justify himself.
Transformed in his new garb, he left his lodgings to present himself once more to his possible employer. His way led past one of the large gambling saloons. It was yet too early to find the dry-goods trader disengaged; perhaps the consciousness of more decent, civilized garb emboldened him to mingle more freely with strangers, and he entered the saloon. He was scarcely abreast of one of the faro tables when a man suddenly leaped up with an oath and discharged a revolver full in his face. The shot missed. Before his unknown assailant could fire again the astonished Flint had closed with him, and instinctively clutched the weapon. A brief but violent struggle ensued. Flint felt his strength failing him, when suddenly a look of astonishment came into the furious eyes of his adversary, and the man’s grasp mechanically relaxed. The half-freed pistol, thrown upwards by this movement, was accidentally discharged point blank into his temples, and he fell dead. No one in the crowd had stirred or interfered.
“You’ve done for Australian Pete this time, Mr. Fowler,” said a voice at his elbow. He turned gaspingly and recognized his strange benefactor, Flynn. “I call you all to witness, gentlemen,” continued the gambler, turning dictatorially to the crowd, “that this man was FIRST attacked and was UNARMED.” He lifted Flint’s limp and empty hands and then pointed to the dead man, who was still grasping the weapon. “Come!” He caught the half-paralyzed arm of Flint and dragged him into the street.
“But,” stammered the horrified Flint, as he was borne along, “what does it all mean? What made that man attack me?”
“I reckon it was a case of shooting on sight, Mr. Fowler; but he missed it by not waiting to see if you were armed. It wasn’t the square thing, and you’re all right with the crowd now, whatever he might have had agin’ you.”
“But,” protested the unhappy Flint, “I never laid eyes on the man before, and my name isn’t Fowler.”
Flynn halted, and dragged him in a door way. “Who the devil are you?” he asked roughly.
Briefly, passionately, almost hysterically, Flint told him his scant story. An odd expression came over the gambler’s face.
“Look here,” he said abruptly, “I have passed my word to the crowd yonder that you are a dead-broke miner called Fowler. I allowed that you might have had some row with that Sydney duck, Australian Pete, in the mines. That satisfied them. If I go back now, and say it’s a lie, that your name ain’t Fowler, and you never knew who Pete was, they’ll jest pass you over to the police to deal with you, and wash their hands of it altogether. You may prove to the police who you are, and how that d— clerk mistook you, but it will give you trouble. And who is there here who knows who you really are?”