"
"I like it," was always his answer.
He had only one real vice, that I could see. He would gamble.
Stud poker was his favourite; and I never saw a Britisher yet who
could play poker. I used to head him off, when I could, and he
was always grateful, but the passion was strong.
After we got back from founding Tombstone I was busted and had to
go to work.
"I've got plenty," said Tim, "and it's all yours."
"I know, old fellow," I told him, "but your money wouldn't do for
me."
Buck Johnson was just seeing his chance then, and was preparing
to take some breeding cattle over into the Soda Springs Valley.
Everybody laughed at him--said it was right in the line of the
Chiricahua raids, which was true. But Buck had been in there
with Agency steers, and thought he knew. So he collected a trail
crew, brought some Oregon cattle across, and built his home ranch
of three-foot adobe walls with portholes. I joined the trail
crew; and somehow or another the Honourable Timothy got
permission to go along on his own hook.
The trail was a long one. We had thirst and heat and stampedes
and some Indian scares. But in the queer atmospheric conditions
that prevailed that summer, I never saw the desert more
wonderful.
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