II

Beside the fallen monarch of the wood the lifting saplings bud and

intertwine. So over the stern old postmaster these young people

re-enacted the most primitive drama in the world. Indifferent to the

jeers of his fellows, Roy devoted himself to the service of "The

Badger's Niece," and was still in town when McCoy returned from "the

East"; that is to say, from Kansas City.

Lida had ceased to protest against the cowboy's attendance and his

love-making, for the good reason that her protests were unavailing. He

declined to take offense, and he would not remain silent. A part of his

devotion was due, of course, to his sense of guilt, and yet this was

only a small part. True, he had sent warnings and dire threats to

silence his band of marauders; but he did not feel keenly enough about

their possible tale-bearing to carry his warnings in person. "I can't

spare the time," he argued, knowing that Lida would be going home in a

few days and that his world would then be blank.

"I lose too much of you," he said to her once; "I can't afford to have

you out of my sight a minute."

She had grown accustomed to such speeches as these, and seldom replied

to them, except to order the speaker about with ever-increasing tyranny.

"You're so anxious to work," she remarked, "I'll let you do a-plenty.

You'll get sick o' me soon."

"Sick of you! Lord heavens! what'll I do when you leave?"

"You'll go back to your ranch. A fine foreman you must be, fooling round

here like a tramp. What does your boss think?"

"Don't know and don't care. Don't care what anybody thinks--but you.

You're my only landmark these days. You're my sun, moon, and stars,

that's what you are. I set my watch by you."

"You're crazy!" she answered, with laughter.

"Sure thing! Locoed, we call it out here. You've got me locoed--you're

my pink poison blossom. There ain't any feed that interests me but you.

I'm lonesome as a snake-bit cow when I can't see you."

"Say, do you know Uncle Dan begins to notice you. He asked me to-day

what you were hanging round here for, and who you were."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you were McCoy's hired man just helping me take care of

him."

"That's a lie. I'm _your_ hired man. I'm takin' care of you--willing to

work for a kiss a day."

"You'll not get even that."

"I'm _not_ getting it--yet."

"You'll never get it."

"Don't be too sure of that. My life-work is _collecting_ my dues. I've

got 'em all set down. You owe me a dozen for extra jobs, and a good hug

for overtime."

She smiled derisively, and turned the current. "The meals you eat are

all of a dollar a day."

"They're worth a bushel of diamonds--when you cook 'em. But let me ask

you something--is your old dad as fierce as Uncle Dan?"

She nodded. "You bet he is! He's crusty as old crust. Don't you go up

against my daddy with any little bank-book. It's got to be a fat wad,

and, mind you, no cloves on your breath, either. He's crabbed on the

drink question; that's why he settled in Colorado Springs. No saloons

there, you know."

He considered a moment. "Much obliged. Now here's something for you.

You're not obliged to hand out soft words and a sweet smile to every

doggone Injun that happens to call for mail. Stop it. Why, you'll have

all the cow-punchers for fifty miles around calling for letters. That

bunch that was in here just now was from Steamboat Springs. Their mail

don't come here; it comes by way of Wyoming. They were runnin' a bluff.

It makes me hot to have such barefaced swindling going on. I won't stand

for it."

"Well, you see, I'm not really deputized to handle the mail, so I must

be careful not to make anybody mad--"

"Anybody but me. I don't count."

"Oh, _you_ wouldn't complain, I know that."

"I wouldn't, hey? Sure of that? Well, I'm going to start a petition to

have myself made postmaster--"

"Better get Uncle Dan out first," she answered, with a sly smile. "The

office won't hold you both."

* * * * *

At the end of a week the old postmaster was able to hobble to the window

and sort the mail, but the doctor would not consent to his cooking his

own meals.

"If you _can_ stay another week," he said to Lida, "I think you'd better

do it. He isn't really fit to live alone."

Thereupon she meekly submitted, and continued to keep house in the

little kitchen for herself, her uncle, and for Roy, who still came

regularly to her table, bringing more than his share of provisions,

however. She was a good deal puzzled by the change which had come over

him of late. He was less gay, less confident of manner, and he often

fell into fits of abstraction.

He was, in fact, under conviction of sin, and felt the need of

confessing to Lida his share in the zealous assault of the cowboys that

night. "It's sure to leak out," he decided, "and I'd better be the first

to break the news." But each day found it harder to begin, and only the

announcement of her intended departure one morning brought him to the

hazard. He was beginning to feel less secure of her, and less

indifferent to the gibes of the town jokers, who found in his

enslavement much material for caustic remark. They called him the "tired

cowboy" and the "trusty."

They were all sitting at supper in the kitchen one night when the old

postmaster suddenly said to Roy: "Seems to me I remember you. Did I know

you before I was sick?" His memory had been affected by his "stroke,"

and he took up the threads of his immediate past with uncertain fingers.

"I reckon so; leastwise I used to get my mail here," answered Roy, a bit

startled.

The old man looked puzzled. "Yes; but it seems a little more special

than that. Someway your face is associated with trouble in my mind. Did

we have any disagreement?"

After the postmaster returned to his chair in the office, Roy said to

Lida, "They're going to throw your uncle out in a few weeks."

"You don't mean it!"

"Sure thing. He really ain't fit to be here any more. Don't you see how

kind o' dazed he is? They're going to get him out on a doctor's

certificate--loss of memory. Now, why don't you get deputized, and act

in his place?"

"Goodness sakes! I don't want to live here."

"Where do you want to live--on a ranch?"

"Not on your life! Colorado Springs is good enough for me."

"That's hard on Roy. What could I do to earn a living there?"

"You don't have to live there, do you?"

"Home is where you are." She had come to the point where she received

such remarks in glassy silence. He looked at her in growing uneasiness,

and finally said: "See here, Lida, I've got something to tell you. You

heard the old man kind o' feelin' around in his old hay-mow of a mind

about me? Well, him and me did have a cussin'-out match one day, and he

drawed a gun on me, and ordered me out of the office."

"What for?"

"Well, it was this way--I think. He was probably sick, and didn't feel a

little bit like sorting mail when I asked for it. He sure was

aggravatin', and I cussed him good and plenty. I reckon I had a clove on

my tongue that day, and was irritable, and when he lit onto me, I was

hot as a hornet, and went away swearing to get square." He braced

himself for the plunge. "That was _my_ gang of cowboys that came

hell-roaring around the night I met you. They were under my orders to

scare your uncle out of his hole, and I was going to rope him."

"Oh!" she gasped, and drew away from him; "that poor, sick old man!"

He hastened to soften the charge. "Of course I didn't know he was sick,

or I wouldn't 'ave done it. He didn't look sick the day before; besides,

I didn't intend to hurt him--much. I was only fixin' for to scare him up

for pullin' a gun on me, that was all."

"That's the meanest thing I ever heard of--to think of that old man,

helpless, and you and a dozen cowboys attacking him!"

"I tell you I didn't know he was ailin', and there was only six of us."