Thus ended the murderous career of the Kid, the terror of the
Southwest. Clark had undoubtedly hit him with one or more of his shots.
Where or how soon after he may have died, no white man knows, Clark
being the last one to see him, as the two shots simultaneously rang out
on the silence of that night. Had it been the Kid instead of the squaw,
Clark would have earned the large reward that was offered for him dead
or alive. Tom Horn, an old scout, who spoke the Apache language like a
native, came from Denver subsequently, hoping that by some chance the
Kid might still be living somewhere and that he might earn the reward.
The mother and the sister, however, both assured him that the Kid was
dead, but beyond this would say nothing.
It would seem that there could be no more fitting ending to this little
sketch than its dedication to the memory of those old-timers, makers of
early-day history, the old pioneers. Each well played his individual
part in that great border drama. On them the curtain has rung down for
the last time. To them the succeeding generations owe much.