respected legends of the fork. But for an unfortunate incident which I shall proceed to relate, it is probable that it would have passed into history and been handed down to posterity, with all the claim to reverence and credence which attaches to the story of William Tell, the tyrant Gessler, and the apple; or the infant G. W., his hatchet, and the old man's cherry-tree.
One day, just as the sun was sinking down in the orange-hued western sky, and the sweating cook was ringing the welcome bell to call the toilers at the mine to supper, a game-looking young frontiersman, clad in buckskin garments, and a broad-brimmed vicuna hat, rode down the steep declivity of the red mountain, and made his way into camp. He was tendered the hospitalities of the place, as were all strangers then, and turned in with the other "boys" on the veranda at night. Stories came on in due course, and, at a hint dexterously thrown out by one of the party, Concatenation Bill started in with the true and affecting history of the "Great Indian Fight on the Gila." And thus he began:
"Well, you see, boys, the old chiefs of the Pimos and Maricopas were all out of practice, and when they found things had gone agin 'em on the first fight, they looked about for a leader who knowed jest how to put up the pins for a victory. Pretty soon they pitched on me, and I drawed up the plan for the next day's operations right away. I stationed the braves at the right points, then laid for the Mojaves, and got 'em.
