Helen and the ranger left the room together, and no sooner were they
free from the crowd than she turned to him with a smile which expressed
affection as well as gratitude.
"How much we owe to you and Dr. Carmody, and what a sorry interruption
we've caused in your work."
He protested that the interruption had been entirely a pleasure, but
she, while knowing nothing of his impending arrest, was fully aware that
he had undergone actual hardship for her sake, and her plan for hurrying
away seemed at the moment most ungracious. Yet this, after all, was
precisely what she now decided to do.
"Is there time for us to catch that eastbound express?" she asked.
Her words chilled his heart with a quick sense of impending loss, but he
looked at his watch. "Yes, if it should happen to be late, as it
generally is." Then, forgetting his parole, in a voice which expressed
more of his pain than he knew, he said: "I hate to see you go. Can't you
wait another day?"
His pleading touched a vibrant spot in her, but she was resolved. "I
have an almost insane desire to get away," she hurriedly explained. "I
am afraid of this country. Its people scare me!" A quick change in her
voice indicated a new thought. "I hope the Kitsongs will not continue in
pursuit of you."
"They won't have a chance to do that," he replied, gloomily. "I'm
leaving, too. I have resigned."
"Oh no! You mustn't do that."
"I turned in my papers this morning." He suddenly recalled his parole.
"I shall soon be free--I hope--to go anywhere and do anything--and I'd
like to keep in touch with you--if you'll let me."
She evaded him. "I shall be very sorry if we are the cause of your
leaving the service."
"Well, you are--but not in the way you mean. You have made me
discontented with myself, that's all, and I'm going to get out of the
tall timber and see if I can't do something in the big world. I want to
win your respect."
"I respect you now. Your work as a forester seems to me very fine and
honorable."
"The work is all right, but I'm leaving it, just the same. I can't see a
future in it. Fact is, I begin to long for a home; that lunch in your
cabin started me on a new line of thought."
The memory of his visit to her garden in the valley seemed now like a
chapter in the story of a far-off community, and she could hardly relate
herself to the hermit girl who served the tea, but the forester--whom
she recognized as a lover--was becoming every moment nearer, more
insistent. A time of reckoning was at hand, and because she could not
meet it she was eager to escape--to avoid the giving of pain. His face
and voice had become dear--and might grow dearer. Therefore she made no
comment on his statement of a desire for a home, and he asked:
"Don't you feel like going back to your garden once more?"
"No," she answered, sharply, "I never want to see the place again. It is
repulsive to me."
Again a little silence intervened. "I hate to think of your posies
perishing for lack of care," he said, with gentle sadness. "If I can,
I'll ride over once in a while and see that they get some water."
His words exerted a magical power. She began to weaken in resolution. It
was not an easy thing to sever the connection which had been so
strangely established between herself and this good friend, who seemed
each moment to be less the simple mountaineer she had once believed him
to be. Western he was, forthright and rough hewn, but he had shown
himself a man in every emergency--a candid, strong man. Her throat
filled with emotion, but she walked beside him in silence.
He had another care on his mind. "You'd better let me round up your
household goods," he suggested.
"Oh no. Let them go; they're not worth the effort."
He insisted. "I don't like to think of any one else having them. It made
me hot just to see that girl playing your guitar. I'll have 'em all
brought down and stored somewhere. You may want 'em some time."
She was rather glad to find they had reached the door of Carmody's
office and that further confidences were impossible, for she was
discovering herself to be each moment deeper in his debt and
correspondingly less able to withstand his wistful, shy demand.
Mrs. Carmody, a short, fat, excited person, met them in the hall with a
cackle of alarm. "I'm awfully glad you've come," she exclaimed. "Your
father has been taken with a cramp or something."
Helen paled with apprehension of disaster, for she knew that her father
had been keenly suffering all the morning. "Here I am, daddy," she
cheerily called, as she entered the room. "It's all right. The inquest
is over and we are free to go."
Kauffman, who was lying on a couch in a corner of the office, turned his
face and bravely smiled. "I'm glad," he weakly replied. "I was afraid
they would call me to the stand again."
Kneeling at his side, she studied his face with anxious care. "Are you
worse, daddy? Has your pain increased?"
"Yes, Nellie, it is worse. I fear I am to be very ill."
She took his hand in hers, a pang of remorseful pity wrenching her
heart. "Don't say that, daddy," she gently chided. "Keep your good
courage." She looked up at the ranger, who stood near with troubled
brow. "Mr. Hanscom, will you please find Dr. Carmody and tell him my
father needs him?"
With a quick word of assurance he hurried away, and the girl, bending to
the care of her stepfather, suffered from a full realization of the fact
that he had been brought to this condition by the strength of his
devotion to her. "For my sake he exiled himself, for me he has been
assaulted, wounded, arrested"--and, looking down upon him in the light
of her recovered sense of values, she became very humble.
"Dear old daddy," she wailed, "it's all my fault. What can I do to make
amends? You've sacrificed so much for me."
Sick as he was, the old man did his best to comfort her, but she was
still sitting on the floor, with head bowed in troubled thought, when
Hanscom and Carmody hurried in. Her relief, made manifest by the instant
movement with which she gave way to him, was almost childlike.
"Oh, Doctor, I'm glad to see you!" she cried out. "I was afraid your
legal duties might keep you."
"Luckily my legal duties are over," he replied, quickly, "and I'm glad
of it. I hope I never'll have another such case."
A brief examination convinced him that the sick man should be put to
bed, and he suggested the Palace Hotel, which stood but a few doors
away.
"He can't travel to-day," he added, knowing that Helen had planned to
take the train.
Kauffman insisted on going. "I can walk," he said, firmly. "I feel a
little dizzy, but I'll be all right in the coach."
Hanscom was at his side, supporting him. "You'd better wait a day," he
said, gently; and Helen understood and sided with him.
Together they helped the sick man to the door and into the doctor's car,
and in a few minutes Kauffman was stretched upon a good bed in a
pleasant room. With a deep sigh of relief he laid his head upon the soft
pillow.
"I am glad not to entrain to-day," he said. "To-morrow will be better
for us all."
"Never mind about to-morrow," said Hanscom. "You rest as easy as you
can."
Helen followed Carmody into the hall. "Tell me the truth," she demanded.
"Is he injured internally?"
"It's hard to say what his injuries are," he cautiously replied. "He's
badly bruised and feverish, but it may be nothing serious. However, he
can't travel for a few days, that's certain."
She was not entirely reassured by his reply, and her voice was bitterly
accusing as she said: "If he should die, I would never forgive myself.
He came here on my account."
"There's no immediate danger. He seems strong and will probably throw
this fever off in a few hours, but he must be kept quiet and cheerful."
There was a rebuke in his final words, and she accepted it as such.
"I'll do the best I can, Doctor," she replied, and returned to her duty.
Hanscom, divining some part of the passion of self-accusation into which
the girl had been thrown, eagerly asked, "Is there something more I can
do?"
"If you will have our bags brought, I shall be grateful. We may not be
able to leave for several days."
"I'll attend to them at once, but"--he looked aside as if afraid of
revealing something--"I may be called away during the afternoon on
business, and if I am, don't think I'm neglecting you."
"How long will you be gone?"
"I can't tell--for a day or two, perhaps."
The thought of his going gave her a sharp pang of prospective
loneliness. "I know you must return to your work," she said, slowly,
"but I shall feel very helpless without you," and the voicing of her
dependence upon him added definiteness and power to her regret.
He hastened to say: "I won't go if I can possibly help it, be sure of
that; but something has come up which may make it necessary for me
to--to take a trip. I'll return as soon as I can. I'll hurry away now
and bring your baggage; that much I can surely do," and he went out,
leaving her greatly troubled by something unexplained in the manner of
his going.
Stopping at Carmody's, Hanscom again thanked him for his kindness and
warned him not to say one word to Helen about his fight with Abe nor
about the warrant that was hanging over him.
"She has enough to worry about as it is," he said; "and if they get me,
as they will, I want you to look after her and let me know how she gets
on."
Carmody did not attempt to minimize the seriousness of the opposition.
"Abe can make a whole lot of trouble for you, in one way and another,
and even if you shake him off, you're in for a settlement with old
Cuneo, who will reach here to-night. As near as I can discover, he's one
of those pop-eyed foreigners who'd just as soon use a knife as not, and
Abe will do his best to spur him into jumping you."
"Well, looks like he'll have hard work reaching me, for, unless
somebody goes my bail, I'm likely to be safe in the 'cooler' when he
gets here."
Carmody had been decidedly friendly all through this troublesome week,
and here was a good place for him to say, "I'll go your bail, Hans," but
he didn't--he couldn't. He was poor and not very secure in his position,
so he let Hanscom go out, and took up his own work with a feeling that
he was playing a poor part in a rough game.
The news of Kauffman's illness reached kindly Mrs. Brinkley and moved
her to call upon Helen, to offer her services, and in the midst of her
polite condolences she said: "Mr. Hanscom's arrest must have infuriated
you. It did me."
Helen turned a startled glance upon her visitor. "I didn't know he was
arrested."
"Didn't you? Well, he is," said Mrs. Brinkley.
"Why; that can't be true! He was here less than an hour ago."
"He's just been arrested for assaulting Kitsong."
Helen, still unable to believe in this calamity, stammered: "But I don't
understand. When did he--When was Kitsong--assaulted?"
"Last night," replied her visitor, with relish, "and you were the cause
of it--in a way."
"I?"
"So the story goes. It seems Abe got nasty about you, and Mr. Hanscom
resented it. They had a fight and Abe was hurt. Unless somebody bails
him out the poor ranger will have to go to jail."
The memory of the ranger's last look completed Helen's understanding of
the situation, and she listened abstractedly while her visitor rattled
on:
"Of course, the judge can't do anything, much as he likes Mr. Hanscom,
and I really don't see who is to go on his bond. He hasn't any relatives
here."
At this point Helen raised her head and interrupted her guest's
commiserating comment. "Yes, you can do something for me. I wish you
would ask Mr. Willing, the vice-president of the First National Bank, to
come over here. I want to consult him on a most important business
matter, and I cannot leave my father. Will you do this?"
"Certainly, with pleasure. I was hoping to be of use," said Mrs.
Brinkley, and she went away greatly wondering what this strange young
woman could possibly want of Mr. Willing.
Helen, with eyes fixed on her father's still form, went over every look
and word the ranger had uttered and understood at last that the "little
trip" he feared was a sentence to the county jail. She was still in
profound thought when Mr. Willing was announced. He was a neat, small
man, whose position in the bank was largely social. Being a friend of
Mrs. Brinkley, and keenly interested in the reports of Helen's romantic
appearance in the courtroom, he came to her door in smiling and
elaborate courtliness.
Helen coldly checked his gallant advances. "Mr. Willing," she said, with
business-like brevity, "I have an account with the Walnut Hills Trust
Company, of Cincinnati, and I want a part of that money transferred, by
telegraph, to my credit in your bank. Can it be done?"
"It is possible--yes."
"I need these funds at once. I must have them. Will you please wire Mr.
Paul Lyford, president of the company, and have five thousand dollars
transferred to my credit in your bank?"
Mr. Willing was cautious. He took the name and address. "I will see what
can be done," he said, non-committally. "Is there anything else I can
do?"
"Yes, I have just heard that Mr. Hanscom has been arrested. If this is
true I want him bailed out as soon as possible. I don't know how these
things are done, but I want to go on his bond. He should have a lawyer
also. He has fallen into this trouble entirely on my account, and I
cannot permit him to suffer. He must be defended."
"I'll do what I can," responded Willing, "but, of course, the matter of
release, on bail, lies with the judge."
"What judge?"
"Probably Judge Brinkley."
"I am glad of that. Mr. Hanscom knows Judge Brinkley. As soon as you
hear from Mr. Lyford let me know, please."
Meanwhile Hanscom had been stopped while bringing the valises to the
hotel and was now in Throop's care. Each hour seemed to involve the
ranger deeper, ever deeper, in his slough of troubles, for it was
reported that Cuneo had 'phoned in from the Cambria power-dam saying he
would reach the town in two hours, and one who had talked with him said
the receiver burned his ear, so hot was the sheepman's wrath.
Helen, greatly troubled, in an agony of impatience awaited Willing's
return, and the housekeeper of the hotel, who came to offer her advice,
did not help to tranquillity.
"It's a good thing the ranger's locked up," she said, "for old Cuneo,
father of the girl, is in town and on the ranger's trail with blood in
his eye."
Of course the eager gossip did not know that the ranger and this
handsome girl were something more than acquaintances, hence she felt
free to enlarge upon and embroider each scrap of rumor, after the
fashion of her kind, and Helen had great difficulty in concealing her
increasing anxiety and self-accusation.
"Don't say any of these things in my father's hearing," she sharply
urged. "He must be kept free from excitement."
It was a singular, a most revealing experience for Helen to find that
her deepening care for her stepfather and a grave sense of
responsibility toward Hanscom were bringing out decision and
determination in her own character. She increased in vigor and
perception. "They shall not persecute this man because he is poor and
alone," she declared, recalling with keen sense of pity his frank
statement that all his property consisted of a couple of ponies, a
saddle, and a typewriter.
She could not leave her father till a nurse came, and, as there was no
telephone in her room, she could only wait--wait and think, and in this
thinking she gave large space to the forester. Her apathy, her
bitterness were both gone. She was no longer the recluse. The mood which
had made her a hermit now seemed both futile and morbid--and yet she was
not ready to return to her friends and relatives in the East. That life
she had also put away. "What if I were to make a new home--somewhere in
the West?" she said, and in this speculation the worshipful face of the
ranger came clear before her eyes.
She was restless and aching with inaction when a hall-boy announced the
return of Mr. Willing, and, stepping into the hall, she discovered an
entirely different Mr. Willing. He was no longer gallant; he was quietly
respectful. With congratulatory word he handed to her two telegrams,
one addressed to her, the other to the bank. One was from the president
of the Walnut Hills Trust Company. It read: "Place five thousand dollars
to Miss McLaren's credit. See that she wants for nothing. Report if she
needs help. Her family is greatly alarmed. Any information concerning
her will be deeply appreciated. Ask her to report at once."
The other was to Helen from Mr. Lyford, whom she had known for many
years. As she read her face flushed and her eyes misted; then a glowing
tide of power, a sense of security, swept over her.
"After all, I am alive and young and rightful owner of this money," she
said to herself. "I will claim it and use it for some good purpose, and
at this moment, what better purpose than to see that a brave, good man
shall not lie in prison?" And, thanking the banker for his aid, she
added: "If Mr. Rawlins, the supervisor, is still in town, I wish you
would find him and ask him to come to me; tell him I want to see him
immediately."
Willing took occasion, as he went through the hotel office down-stairs,
to call the proprietor aside and say: "Anything Miss McLaren wants you'd
better supply. She's able to pay."
The landlord, who had shared the general suspicion abroad in the
community, stared. "Are you sure of that? I was just wondering about
these folks. They have the reputation of being as poor as Job's off ox."
"You needn't worry. The girl has a balance in our bank of several
thousand dollars."
"You don't tell me!" exclaimed the landlord.
Willing went on, smoothly: "Better give her the parlor and put an
extension 'phone in for her use. She needs a trained nurse, but I'll
attend to that if you'll see to the 'phone."
In theory, we all despise money; in fact, we find it of wondrous
potency. Behold this hotelkeeper mentally taking his feet from his desk
and removing his hat when he learned that one of these hermits had
unlimited credit at the bank. Mr. Willing's cashier was also deeply
impressed and puzzled.
"What did such a girl mean by living away up there with that Shellfish
gang of rustlers and counterfeiters? What's the idea?" he asked,
irritably. "She certainly has acted like a fly-by-night up to this
time."
"Well, she's established herself now. Her connections are first class,"
Willing rejoined. "Here's another telegram from Louisville asking full
information concerning Miss McLaren and Arnold Kauffman. They don't stop
at expense. Evidently they have all been in the dark about the girl's
whereabouts and want the facts. Some story to put into a telegram, but
I'll do my best."
"Don't scare 'em," cautioned Knight. "Say she's all right and surrounded
by friends."
Willing took his turn at smiling. "Didn't look that way this morning,
did it? But she's all right now--except that she's terribly wrought up
over Hanscom's predicament."
"Well, no wonder. As near as I can figger, he's stood by her like a
brother-in-law, and the least she can do is to stick around and help him
out."
Conditions between Helen and the ranger were now precisely reversed. It
was she who was eagerly trying to save him from the prison cell. She was
alarmed, also, by the prediction made by the housekeeper that if the
ranger were released on bail he would only be out of the frying-pan into
the fire, for old Cuneo would surely meet him and demand satisfaction.
"Perhaps if I were to see Cuneo," she thought, "I could persuade him
that Mr. Hanscom had no wish to involve Margarita--that her arrest was
only, in a way, incidental to Busby's capture."
She said nothing of this resolution, but sent a note to Throop,
requesting him to let Rawlins know that she was ready to bail Hanscom.
"It will be a great injustice if he is held on my account."
Throop replied in person, for he liked Helen and was eager to do Hanscom
a favor. "Yes," he said, "Hans is in jail, but not in a cell, and I
think Rawlins will succeed in reaching the judge and so get out the writ
this afternoon."
"Is there not some way for me to help? How much bail is needed?"
"Well, all depends on the judge. The charge the Kitsongs bring is pretty
serious. They call it assault with a deadly weapon, and I'll have to
testify that Hans was armed when I came into the scrap--and yet Simpson
says he left the hotel without his gun--Simpson declares Hanscom said:
'I'm safer without it. I might fly mad and hurt somebody with it!' As I
say, I didn't see the beginning of the battle, but when I broke into it,
'peared to me more like a dozen armed men were attacking Hans. They had
him jammed up against the wall. He was fighting mad--I must admit that,
and later he had a gun. Where he got it, I don't know. However, that
shouldn't count against him, for he was only defending himself as any
citizen has a right to do."
"Surely the judge will take that into account?"
"He will; but you see the witnesses are mostly all Abe's friends. And
then Hans did begin it--he admits he jolted Abe. However, the case will
come up before Brinkley, and he's friendly. He'll do all he can."
"Could I see him--I mean the judge?"
"Better not. Judges are fairly testy about being 'seen.' It would look
bad--especially after it got noised around that you had money to spend
on the case."
"Anyhow, Mr. Rawlins must let me relieve him of the financial part of
the burden. It may not be easy for him to sign such a bond."
"It isn't easy--now, that's the truth," admitted Throop. "You see, he's
only a young fellow on a salary, and it means a whole lot to a man just
starting a home. He might have to pledge his entire outfit."
"Don't let him do that--he mustn't do that! Tell him that I will assume
all the hazard."
Throop extended a big paw in a gesture of admiration and his throat
needed clearing before he spoke. "You're all _right_!" he said. "Hans is
in big luck to have you on his side."
She submitted to his grip with a fine glow in her face. "I _must_ be on
his side, for he has been on my side all along. He was the one soul in
all this land that I could trust."
Throop's statement concerning Rawlins was right. To put up a
thousand-dollar bond was a serious matter. It meant pledging his whole
fortune, and the case was made the more serious by reason of the
probable disapproval of the district office, and yet he liked Hanscom
too well not to do all he could for him. Hanscom, who realized quite
clearly his former chief's predicament, urged him not to sign.
"The office won't like it, Jack--especially as I have quit the work."
They were in the midst of a heated discussion of this point (in Throop's
office) when the sheriff returned from his interview with Helen. He
entered wearing a broad smile.
"I've got something for you, Mr. Supervisor. I've got you a date with
the handsomest girl in the county."
Rawlins remained calm. "There's only one girl in the world for me, and
she's in Cambria, getting supper for me. However, I'm interested. Who is
the lady?"
Throop dropped his humorous mask. "Miss McLaren wants to see you. She's
fairly anxious about Hans--wants to go on his bond with you, or instead
of you."
Hanscom gazed at the sheriff in silence, but Rawlins exclaimed: "Bless
the girl! That's fine of her, but does she realize what going on this
bond means?"
"She does, and she's willing to back Hans with two thousand dollars if
necessary."
Rawlins, frankly astonished, asked: "Two thousand dollars! Has she got
it?"
"She has, and a good deal more. Willing of the First National has been
in touch with her people back East, and apparently there's no end to
what they're ready to do for her. Somebody, a brother or cousin, has
come to her rescue like a savings-bank. Hans, you do beat the devil for
luck. I was ready to congratulate you before--now I am just plumb,
low-down envious."
So far from filling the forester with joy, this news threw him into dark
despair. If Helen turned out to be rich his case was even more hopeless
than he had imagined it to be. It was sweet to be so defended, so
rescued, but it was also disheartening. With wealth added to the grace
which he adored in her, she was lifted far beyond his reach.
"Don't let her go on the bond," he said at last; "it's splendid of her,
but if she does that she will be kept here, and I know she is crazy to
get away, and we must not let her any deeper into this muss of mine."
Rawlins rose. "Well, I'll go see her, anyway. I'm for letting her help
out if she's able and feels like it."
Throop followed him out and down the walk. "That girl's getting terribly
interested in Hans--and she has a right to be. No man could have put in
better work for a woman than he did for her. She says it's all her
fault--and so it is, in a way." He chuckled. "Rather dashes him to find
out she's a moneyed person, don't it? But what's the odds? He needn't
complain, if she don't."
Helen's deepening interest in the forester expressed itself in the
pleasure she took in discussing with Rawlins the means of setting him
free.
"All you have to do," the supervisor explained, "is to appear before the
judge, deposit a certified check, and sign the paper which the law
demands."
"Let us go at once," she said. "My father is sleeping now and the
housekeeper will sit with him. I can slip away for an hour."
"The sooner the quicker," agreed Rawlins.
While she was gone on a cautious inspection of the sick-room a
messenger-boy came to the door with a telegram. "Gee! but the company is
doing business to-day!" he remarked to Rawlins, with a grin. "Here's
another fat one."
Rawlins gently pushed him into the hall. "That'll do for you, son," he
said. "Fat or thin, you deliver your goods and keep still."
The message was indeed a "fat one," and came, Helen said, from a sister
in Chicago, and expressed great anxiety to know exactly what conditions
were. "Do you need me?" the writer demanded. "If you do, I will start at
once. Let us hear from you. We are all very anxious."
Though visibly affected by this appeal, Helen's reply was brief. "No
need of you. I am well and returning East soon. Have all I need."
This she handed in to the operator herself as she and Rawlins were on
the way to Judge Brinkley's office; and then with the thought of
possibly getting away in a day or two she asked of Rawlins: "When will
Mr. Hanscom's trial come off?"
"Not for several weeks, I fear, unless we can do something to have it
put forward. You see, they've all conspired to make it a case for the
County Court, but the judge may be able to throw it back into the
Justice Court, where it really belongs. At the worst, Hans should only
be fined, but, of course, we can't say a word. We can only wait till the
hearing."
A few hours ago she would have been fiercely impatient at this prospect
of delay, but now, most strangely, she found herself accepting, without
protest, a further stay in the town, for it came as a part of her
pledged service in the aid of an unselfish young man, and she was
definitely, distinctly moved at the thought of helping him.
"By the way, Mr. Rawlins, I notice you call Mr. Hanscom Hans. Is that
his Christian name?"
"Oh no, that's only his nickname. He signs his reports L. J. Hanscom. I
think his real name is Lawrence. I don't know why everybody calls him
'Hans'--probably because he is so friendly and helpful. Everybody likes
him except that Shellfish Valley crowd, and they feel, I suppose, that I
put him down here to keep tab on them, which is the fact. They're a nest
of bad ones--a lot of hold-overs from the past--and would have frozen
him out long ago if they could."
Knowing the ranger's first name seemed to bring him still nearer, and
she began to feel a little uneasy about the way in which he might take
her share in his liberation. "Suppose he should misread it!"
On the street corner near the judge's office they encountered a dozen
men, grouped around a small, dark, middle-aged citizen with very black
hair, a long mustache, and a fumed-oak complexion, who seemed to be
monologuing for the enlightenment of the crowd. He looked like a
Mexican, or some exile from the south of Europe, and as Helen and
Rawlins paused for a moment they heard him say in a voice of pathetic
softness: "I blame nobody but heem, Hart Busby. He steal my girl away. I
have no fight with any one else."
This was the dreaded Cuneo, the father of Margarita, whose coming
promised death to the ranger! The imaginary savage with ready knife, the
infuriated giant with blazing eyes, gave place to the actuality of this
gentle, stricken; melancholy little sheepherder, who had no insane
desire to avenge himself on any one, much less on Hanscom. Helen's
resolution to meet and placate the dreaded Basque gave place to pity and
a sense of relief.
Rawlins viewed the matter humorously and laughed softly. "Hans needn't
worry about that little mongrel."
"He has suffered--he is suffering now," Helen replied. "I wish he might
have his girl and take her home."
Judge Brinkley's chambers consisted of two large rooms stacked with
law-books to the ceiling, and in the outer one a couple of rough-looking
men and a discouraged-looking little woman were sitting, waiting for an
interview. Ordinarily Helen would have passed the woman without a second
thought; now she wondered what her legal troubles might be.
The judge gave precedence to Helen and the supervisor and invited them
to his private office at once. Although he had some inkling of the
romantic attachment between the ranger and this fine young woman, he
did not presume upon it in any way, even in his answer to her questions.
"I hardly think a serious case can be made out against Hanscom," he
said, "but you will soon know, for a preliminary hearing will be granted
within a day or two. Meanwhile," he added, "I am very glad to issue an
order for his liberation on bond."
Helen thanked him most warmly, and, with the writ of release in hand,
Rawlins asked if she would not like to present it to the sheriff
himself. At first she declined, thinking of her own embarrassment, but
as she recalled the unhesitating action with which Hanscom had always
acted in her affairs, she changed her mind and consented, and with her
consent came a strong desire to let him know that her gratitude had in
it something personal. Secretly she acknowledged a wish to see his
rugged, serious face light up with the relief which the release would
bring. His mouth, she remembered, was singularly refined and his smile
winning.
On the way Rawlins spoke of Hanscom's resignation in terms of sincere
regret. "If he will only stay in the service, I am sure he will be
promoted; but I cannot blame him for feeling lonely."
At the jail door Helen's self-consciousness increased mightily. Her
resolution almost failed her.
"What will he think of me coming to him in this way?" was the question
which disturbed her, and she was deeply flushed and her pulse quickened
as Rawlins, quite unconscious of her sudden panic, led the way into the
sheriff's office and with eager haste presented her to Throop, who
greeted her with the smile and gesture of an old acquaintance.
The supervisor lost no time. "We've come on business," he said. "We
want Hanscom, Mr. Sheriff. This young lady has gone on his bond in my
stead, and here is an order for his release, signed by Judge Brinkley."
Throop was genuinely pleased. "Hah! I'm glad of that," he said, as he
took the paper. After a moment's glance at it he said: "All right, you
can have the body. Go into the parlor and I'll send him in to you."
Helen obeyed silently, knowing that Rawlins would remain in the
office--which he did--leaving her to receive the ranger alone.
He came in with eyes alight with worship. "I'm heartily obliged to you,"
he said, boyishly. "I thought I was in for a week or two of cell life
and reflection."
She met his gratitude with instant protest. "Please don't thank me; I am
only repaying a little of our debt. Won't you be seated?" she added,
acting the part of hostess in her embarrassment. "Of course I don't mean
that. You must be anxious to leave this place."
"I was, but I'm not so anxious now. How is Mr. Kauffman?"
"Much easier. He was sleeping when I left."
"I'm glad of that. He's had a hard week, and so have you, and yet"--he
hesitated--"you are looking well in spite of it all."
"That is the strange part of it," she admitted. "I am stronger and
happier than I have been for two years. I have just heard from my family
in the East."