“I’ve heard my father tell about those Cherokees,” said Port Cole.  “They used to live in Georgia, those Indians.  They must have been honest people, for my father told us boys at home, that once in the old State while the Cherokees lived there, his father hired one of their tribe to guide him over the mountains.  There was a pass through the mountains that was used and known only to these Indians.  It would take six weeks to go and come, and to attend to the business in view.  My father was a small boy at the time, and says that his father hired the guide for the entire trip for forty dollars in gold.  One condition was that the money was to be paid in advance.  The morning was set for the start, and my grandfather took my father along on the trip.

“Before starting from the Indian’s cabin my grandfather took out his purse and paid the Indian four ten-dollar gold pieces.  The Indian walked over to the corner of the cabin, and in the presence of other Indians laid this gold, in plain sight of all, on the end of a log that projected where they cross outside, and got on his horse to be gone six weeks.  They made the trip on time, and my father said his first thought, on their return to the Indian village, was to see if the money was untouched.  It was.  You couldn’t risk white folks that way.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said one of the boys.  “Suppose you save your wages this summer and try it next year when we start up the trail, just to see how it will work.”

“Well, if it’s just the same to you,” replied Port, lighting a fresh cigar, “I’ll not try, for I’m well enough satisfied as to how it would turn out, without testing it.”

“Isn’t it strange,” said Bat Shaw, “that if you trust a man or put confidence in him he won’t betray you.  Now, that marshal—­one month he was guarding money at the risk of his life, and the next was losing his life trying to rob some one.  I remember a similar case down on the Rio Grande.  It was during the boom in sheep a few years ago, when every one got crazy over sheep.

“A couple of Americans came down on the river to buy sheep.  They brought their money with them.  It was before the time of any railroads.  The man they deposited their money with had lived amongst these Mexicans till he had forgotten where he did belong, though he was a Yankee.  These sheep-buyers asked their banker to get them a man who spoke Spanish and knew the country, as a guide.  The banker sent and got a man that he could trust.  He was a swarthy-looking native whose appearance would not recommend him anywhere.  He was accepted, and they set out to be gone over a month.

“They bought a band of sheep, and it was necessary to pay for them at a point some forty miles further up the river.  There had been some robbing along the river, and these men felt uneasy about carrying the money to this place to pay for the sheep.  The banker came to the rescue by advising them to send the money by the Mexican, who could take it through in a single night.  No one would ever suspect him of ever having a dollar on his person.  It looked risky, but the banker who knew the nature of the native urged it as the better way, assuring them that the Mexican was perfectly trustworthy.  The peon was brought in, the situation was explained to him, and he was ordered to be in readiness at nightfall to start on his errand.