Conradt [pp. 169-174]

Conradt.
gleeful, anticipating manner. "Cla-lahum gone up, and Chiricahua going away
kicking."
"He won't kick long, Whisky," I
retorted angrily, as I brought my boot
heel down on old Ju, and crushed him
into jelly, "and if you make any more
of that kind of medicine and lose yourself again among these gulches and ravines, I'11 serve you in the same way.
Fall in your red outfit and make ready
to go on."
We did, but I might just as well have
tried to find a needle in a haystack as
to hunt old Ju to cover in those mountains with Tiz-win for a guide.
I received the thanks of the Smithsonian, but never caught sight of Ju until
long afterwards on the San Carlos, when
he was introduced to me by Tiz-win,
who turned out to be his brother-in-law,
a connection which explained many
things to me.
The old fellow was suffering from a
bone felon on his right middle finger,
which I lanced for him, and his gratitude for the alleviation of his excruciating pain was so great that he presented
me with four Navajo blankets, -which
he had probably stolen somewhere, and
which I keep in remembrance of that
physically magnificent, bloodthirsty old
Roman, who broke away with his whole
band soon afterwards, and was killed,
with my dear, deceiving old decoy duck
of a tutor in the Sierra Madre.
A. G. Tassin.
CONRADT.
I FIRST saw Conradt in one of the
little second-hand shops that are so
numerous in the cross-streets south of
Market Street and below Fifth, in San
Francisco. I had been directed there
by a friend, to look at a bit of carving
which she thought of purchasing, but
upon which, knowing I had a taste for
such things, she first desired my judgment. While I was examining the work
-which, after all, proved to possess less
merit than I had been led to expect -
my attention was attracted to the hero
of this sketch.
He sat in a corner of the shop, before
a small, black box that stood upon a
table. His gray head was bent forward,
and with one hand thrust into the front
of his shabby coat, and the other half
extended, waving in the air with a slow,
rhythmic motion, as if keeping time
to the strains of invisible music, he
appeared lost in contemplation of the
object before him.
Presently, as if with an effort, recollecting himself, he picked up a rough cap
that lay beside his chair, and arose to
go. As he turned about, he presented
to the observer a little bent form, arrayed in shabby clothes, patched and
worn. He had a face like a winter apple,
showing an odd blending of russet and
red, as if the storms and sunshine of a
late fall had taken turns in determining
its coloring. His head was carried well
forward, as if he were walking against
the wind, and indeed his whole bearing
suggested that he had all his life faced
wind and storm, until his features had
become permanently warped and his
form bent in resisting the tempest and
sleet. A pair of kindly, innocent blue
eyes, peering from beneath heavy, ragged brows, and a shock of wind-blown
gray hair, completed the picture.
He bowed to the dealer in passing the
spot where we two stood talking, and
murmured in broken E nglish what
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