IX

Notwithstanding that The Palmetto was the most pretentious building in

Cloudy, and was the only rooming and eating house that outwardly

asserted its right to be called an hotel, its saloon contrasted

unfavourably with its rival, The Polka. There was not the individuality

of the Girl there to charm away the impress of coarseness settled upon

it by the loafers, the habitual drunkards and the riffraff of the camp,

who were not tolerated elsewhere. In short, it did not have that certain

indefinable something which gave to The Polka Saloon an almost homelike

appearance, but was a drab, squalid, soulless place with nothing to

recommend it but its size.

In a small parlour pungent at all times with the odour of liquor,--but

used only on rare occasions, most of The Palmetto’s patrons preferring

the even more stifling atmosphere of the bar-room,--the Wells Fargo

Agent had been watching and waiting ever since he had left The Polka

Saloon. On a table in front of him was a bottle, for it was a part of

Ashby’s scheme of things to solace thus all such weary hours.

Although a shrewd judge of women of the Nina Micheltoreña type and by no

means unmindful of their mercurial temperament, Ashby, nevertheless,

had felt that she would keep her appointment with him. In the Mexican

Camp he had read the wild jealousy in her eyes, and had assumed, not

unnaturally, that there had been scarcely time for anything to occur

which would cause a revulsion of feeling on her part. But as the moments

went by, and still she did not put in an appearance, an expression of

keen disappointment showed itself on his face and, with mechanical

regularity, he carried out the liquid programme, shutting his eyes after

each drink for moments at a time yet, apparently, in perfect control of

his mind when he opened them again; and it was in one of these moments

that he heard a step outside which he correctly surmised to be that of

the Sheriff.

Without a word Rance walked into the room and over to the table and

helped himself to a drink from the bottle there, which action the Wells

Fargo Agent rightly interpreted as meaning that the posse had failed to

catch their quarry. At first a glint of satisfaction shone in Ashby’s

eyes: not that he disliked Rance, but rather that he resented his

egotistical manner and evident desire to overawe all who came in contact

with him; and it required, therefore, no little effort on his part to

banish this look from his face and make up his mind not to mention the

subject in any manner.

For some time, therefore, the two officers sat opposite to each other

inhaling the stale odour of tobacco and spirits peculiar to this room,

with little or no ventilation. It was enough to sicken anyone, but both

men, accustomed to such places in the pursuit of their calling,

apparently thought nothing of it, the Sheriff seemingly absorbed in

contemplating the long ash at the end of his cigar, but, in reality,

turning over in his mind whether he should leave the room or not. At

length, he inaugurated a little contest of opinion.

“This woman isn’t coming, that’s certain,” he declared, impatiently.

“I rather think she will; she promised not to fail me,” was the other’s

quiet answer; and he added: “In ten minutes you’ll see her.”

It was a rash remark and expressive of a confidence that he by no means

felt. As a matter of fact, it was induced solely by the cynical smile

which he perceived on the Sheriff’s face.

“You, evidently, take no account of the fact that the lady may have

changed her mind,” observed Rance, lighting a fresh cigar. “The Nina

Micheltoreñas are fully as privileged as others of their sex.”

As he drained his glass Ashby gave the speaker a sharp glance; another

side of Rance’s character had cropped out. Moreover, Ashby’s quick

intuition told him that the other’s failure to catch the outlaw was not

troubling him nearly as much as was the blow which his conceit had

probably received at the hands of the Girl. It was, therefore, in an

indulgent tone that he said:

“No, Rance, not this one nor this time. You mark my words, the woman is

through with Ramerrez. At least, she is so jealous that she thinks she

is. She’ll turn up here, never fear; she means business.”

The shoulders of Mr. Jack Rance strongly suggested a shrug, but the man

himself said nothing. They were anything but sympathetic companions,

these two officers, and in the silence that ensued Rance formulated

mentally more than one disparaging remark about the big man sitting

opposite to him. It is possible, of course, that the Sheriff’s rebuff by

the Girl, together with the wild goose chase which he had recently taken

against his better judgment, had something to do with this bitterness;

but it was none the less true that he found himself wondering how Ashby

had succeeded in acquiring his great reputation. Among the things that

he held against him was his everlasting propensity to boast of his

achievements, to say nothing of the pedestal upon which the boys

insisted upon placing him. Was this Wells Fargo’s most famous agent? Was

this the man whose warnings were given such credence that they stirred

even the largest of the gold camps into a sense of insecurity? And at

this Rance indulged again in a fit of mental merriment at the other’s

expense.

But, although he would have denied it in toto, the truth of the matter

was that the Sheriff was jealous of Ashby. Witty, generous, and a high

liver, the latter was generally regarded as a man who fascinated women;

moreover, he was known to be a favourite--and here the shoe

pinched--with the Girl. True, the demands of his profession were such as

to prevent his staying long in any camp. Nevertheless, it seemed to

Rance that he contrived frequently to turn up at The Polka when the boys

were at the diggings.

After Ashby’s observation the conversation by mutual, if unspoken,

consent, was switched into other channels. But it may be truthfully said

that Rance did not wholly recover his mental equilibrium until a door

was heard to open noiselessly and some whispered words in Spanish fell

upon their ears.

Now the Sheriff, as well as Ashby, had the detective instinct fully

developed; moreover, both men knew a few words of that language and had

an extreme curiosity to hear the conversation going on between a man and

a woman, who were standing just outside in a sort of hallway. As a

result, therefore, both officers sprang to the door with the hope--if

indeed it was Nina Micheltoreña as they surmised--that they might catch

a word or two which would give them a clue to what was likely to take

place at the coming interview. It came sooner than they expected.

“ ... Ramerrez--Five thousand dollars!” reached their ears in a soft,

Spanish voice.

Ashby needed nothing more than this. In an instant, much to the

Sheriff’s astonishment, and moving marvellously quick for a man of his

heavy build, he was out of the room, leaving Rance to face a woman with

a black mantilla thrown over her head who, presently, entered by another

door.

Nina Micheltoreña, for it was she, did not favour him with as much as an

icy look. Nor did the Sheriff give any sign of knowing her; a wise

proceeding as it turned out, for a quick turn of the head and a subtle

movement of the woman’s shoulders told him that she was in anything but

a quiet state of mind. One glance towards the door behind him, however,

and the reason of her anger was all too plain: A Mexican was vainly

struggling in the clutches of Ashby.

“Why are you dragging him in?” Far from quailing before him as did her

confederate, she confronted Ashby with eyes that flashed fire. “He came

with me--”

Ashby cut her short.

“We don’t allow greasers in this camp and--” he began in a throaty

voice.

“But he is waiting to take me back!” she objected, and then added: “I

wish him to wait for me outside, and unless you allow him to I’ll go at

once.” And with these words she made a movement towards the door.

Ashby laid one restraining hand upon her, while with the other he held

on to the Mexican. Of a sudden there had dawned upon him the conviction

that for once in his life he had made a grievous mistake. He had

thought, by the detention of her confederate, to have two strings to his

bow, but one glance at the sneeringly censorious expression on the

Sheriff’s face convinced him that no information would be forthcoming

from the woman while in her present rebellious mood.

“All right, my lady,” he said, for the time being yielding to her will,

“have your way.” And turning now to the Mexican, he added none too

gently: “Here you, get out!”

Whereupon the Mexican slunk out of the room.

“There’s no use of your getting into a rage,” went on Ashby, turning to

the woman in a slightly conciliatory manner. “I calculated that the

greaser would be in on the job, too.”

All through this scene Rance had been sitting back in his chair chewing

his cigar in contemptuous silence, while his face wore a look of languid

insolence, a fact which, apparently, did not disturb the woman in the

least, for she ignored him completely.

“It was well for you, Señor Ashby, that you let him go. I tell you

frankly that in another moment I should have gone.” And now throwing

back her mantilla she took out a cigarette from a dainty, little case

and lit it and coolly blew a cloud of smoke in Rance’s face, saying: “It

depends on how you treat me--you, Mr. Jack Rance, as well as Señor

Ashby--whether we come to terms or not. Perhaps I had better go away

anyway,” she concluded with a shrug of admirably simulated indifference.

This time Ashby sat perfectly still. It was not difficult to perceive

that her anger was decreasing with every word that she uttered; nor did

he fail to note how fluently she spoke English, a slight Spanish accent

giving added charm to her wonderfully soft and musical voice. How

gloriously beautiful, he told himself, she looked as she stood there,

voluptuous, compelling, alluring, the expression that had been almost

diabolical, gradually fading from her face. Was it possible, he asked

himself, that all this loveliness was soiled forever? He felt that there

was something pitiful in the fact that the woman standing before him

represented negotiable property which could be purchased by any

passer-by who had a few more nuggets in his possession than his

neighbour; and, perhaps, because of his knowledge of the piteous history

of this former belle of Monterey he put a little more consideration into

the voice that said:

“All right, Nina, we’ll get down to business. What have you to say to

us?”

By this time Nina’s passionate anger had burned itself out. In

anticipation, perhaps, of what she was about to do, she looked straight

ahead of her into space. It was not because she was assailed by some

transient emotion to forswear her treacherous desire for vengeance; she

had no illusion of that kind. Too vividly she recalled the road agent’s

indifferent manner at their last interview for any feeling to dwell in

her heart other than hatred. It was that she was summoning to appear a

vision scarcely less attractive, however pregnant with tragedy, than

that of seeing herself avenged: a gay, extravagant career in Mexico or

Spain which the reward would procure for her. That was what she was

seeing, and with a pious wish for its confirmation she began to make

herself a fresh cigarette, rolling it dexterously with her white,

delicate fingers, and not until her task was accomplished and her full,

red lips were sending forth tiny clouds of smoke did she announce:

“Ramerrez was in Cloudy Mountain to-night.”

But however much of a surprise this assertion was to both men, neither

gave vent to an exclamation. Instead Rance regarded his elegantly booted

feet; Ashby looked hard at the woman as if he would read the truth in

her eyes; while as for Nina, she continued to puff away at her little

cigarette after the manner of one that has appealed not in vain to the

magic power which can paint out the past and fill the blank with the

most beautiful of dreams.

The Wells Fargo man was the first to make any comment; he asked:

“You know this?” And then as she surveyed them through a scented cloud

and bowed her head, he added: “How do you know it?”

“That I shall not tell you,” replied the woman, firmly.

Ashby made an impatient movement towards her with the question:

“Where was he?”

“Oh, come, Ashby!” put in Rance, speaking for the first time. “She’s

putting up a game on us.”

In a flash Nina wheeled around and with eyes that blazed advanced to the

table where the Sheriff was sitting. Indeed, there was something so

tigerish about the woman that the Sheriff, in alarm, quickly pushed back

his chair.

“I am not lying, Jack Rance.” There was an evil glitter in her eye as

she watched a sarcastic smile playing around his lips. “Oh, yes, I know

you--you are the Sheriff,” and so saying a peal of contemptuous

merriment burst from her, “and Ramerrez was in the camp not less than

two hours ago.”

Ashby could hardly restrain his excitement.

“And you saw him?” came from him.

“Yes,” was her answer.

Both men sprang to their feet; it was impossible to doubt any longer

that she spoke the truth.

“What’s his game?” demanded Rance.

The woman answered his question with a question.

“How about the reward, Señor Ashby?”

“You needn’t worry about that--I’ll see that you get what’s coming to

you,” replied the Wells Fargo Agent already getting into his coat.

“But how are we to know?” inquired Rance, likewise getting ready to

leave. “Is he an American or a Mexican?”

“To-night he’s an American, that is, he’s dressed and looks like one.

But the reward--you swear you’re playing fair?”

“On my honour,” Ashby assured her.

The woman’s face stood clear--cruelly clear in the light of the kerosene

lamp above her head. About her mouth and eyes there was a repellent

expression. Her mind, still working vividly, was reviewing the past; and

a bitter memory prompted the words which were said however with a smile

that was still seductive:

“Try to recall, Señor Ashby, what strangers were in The Polka to-night?”

At these ominous words the men started and regarded each other

questioningly. Their keen and trained intelligences were greatly

distressed at being so utterly in the dark. For an instant, it is true,

the thought of the greaser that Ashby had brought in rose uppermost in

their minds, but only to be dismissed quickly when they recalled the

woman’s words concerning the way that the road agent was dressed. A

moment more, however, and a strange thought had fastened itself on one

of their active minds--a thought which, although persisting in forcing

itself upon the Sheriff’s consideration, was in the end rejected as

wholly improbable. But who was it then? In his intensity Rance let his

cigar go out.

“Ah!” at last he cried. “Johnson, by the eternal!”

“Johnson?” echoed Ashby, wholly at sea and surprised at the look of

corroboration in Nina’s eyes.

“Yes, Johnson,” went on Rance, insistently. Why had he not seen at once

that it was Johnson who was the road agent! There could be no mistake!

“You weren’t there,” he explained hurriedly, “when he came in and began

flirting with the Girl and--”

“Ramerrez making love to the Girl?” broke in Ashby. “Ye Gods!”

“The Girl? So that’s the woman he’s after now!” Nina laughed bitterly.

“Well, she’s not destined to have him for long, I can tell you!” And

with that she reached out for the bottle on the table and poured herself

a small glass of whisky and swallowed it. When she turned her lips were

tightly shut over her brilliant teeth, a thousand thoughts came rushing

into her brain. There was no longer any compunction--she would strike

now and deep. Through her efforts alone the man would be captured, and

she gloried in the thought.

“Here--here is something that will interest you!” she said; and putting

her hand in her bosom drew out a soiled, faded photograph. “There--that

will settle him for good and all! Never again will he boast of trifling

with Nina Micheltoreña--with me, a Micheltoreña in whose veins runs the

best and proudest blood of California!”

Ashby fairly snatched the photograph out of her hand and, after one look

at it, passed it over to the Sheriff.

“Good of him, isn’t it?” sneered Nina; and then seemingly trying by her

very vehemence to impress upon herself the impossibility of his ever

being anything but an episode in her life, she added: “I hate him!”

The picture was indeed an excellent one. It represented Ramerrez in the

gorgeous dress of a _caballero_--and the outlaw was a fine specimen of

that spectacular class of men. But Rance studied the photograph only

long enough to be sure that no mistake was possible. With a quick

movement he put it away in his pocket and looked long and hard at the

figure of the degraded woman standing before him and revelling in her

treachery. In that time he forgot that anyone had ever entertained a

kind thought about her; he forgot that she once was respected as well as

admired; he was conscious only of regarding her with a far deeper

disgust and repugnance than he held towards others much her inferior in

birth and education. But, presently, his face grew a shade whiter, if

that were possible, and he cursed himself for not having thought of the

danger to which the Girl might even now be exposed. In less than a

minute, therefore, both men stood ready for the work before them. But on

the threshold just before going out into the fierce storm that had burst

during the last few minutes, he paused and called back:

“You Mexican devil! If any harm comes to the Girl, I’ll strangle you

with my own hands!” And not waiting to hear the woman’s mocking laughter

he passed out, followed by Ashby, into the storm.

X

In the still black night and with no guide other than the dimly-lighted

lantern which she carried, the Girl had started for home--a bit of

shelter in the middle of a great silence, a little fortress in the

wilderness, as it were, with its barred doors and windows--on the top of

Cloudy Mountain. To be sure, it was not the first time that she had

followed the trail alone: Day and night, night and day, for as long,

almost, as she could remember, she had been doing it; indeed, she had

watched the alders, oaks and dwarf pines, that bordered the trail, grow

year by year as she herself had grown, until now the whispering of the

mountain’s night winds spoke a language as familiar as her own; but

never before had she climbed up into the clean, wide, free sweep of this

unbounded horizon, the very air untainted and limitless as the sky

itself, with so keen and uncloying a pleasure. But there was a new

significance attached to her home-coming to-night: was she not to

entertain there her first real visitor?

At the threshold of her cabin the Girl, her cheeks aglow and eyes as

bright, almost, as the red cape that enveloped her lithe, girlish

figure, paused, and swinging her lantern high above her head so that its

light was reflected in the room, she endeavoured to imagine what would

be the impression that a stranger would receive coming suddenly upon

these surroundings.

And well might she have paused, for no eye ever rested upon a more

conglomerate ensemble! Yet, withal, there was a certain attractiveness

about this log-built, low, square room, half-papered with gaudy

paper--the supply, evidently, having fallen short,--that was as

unexpected as it was unusual.

Upon the floor, which had a covering of corn sacks, were many beautiful

bear and wolf skins, Indian rugs and Navajo blankets; while

overhead--screening some old trunks and boxes neatly piled up high in

the loft, which was reached by a ladder, generally swung out of the

way--hung a faded, woollen blanket; from the opposite corner there fell

an old, patchwork, silk quilt. Dainty white curtains in all their

crispness were at the windows, and upon the walls were many rare and

weird trophies of the chase, not to mention the innumerable pictures

that had been taken from “Godey’s Lady Book” and other periodicals of

that time. A little book-shelf, that had been fashioned out of a box,

was filled with old and well-read books; while the mantel that guarded

the fireplace was ornamented with various small articles, conspicuous

among which were a clock that beat loud, automatic time with a brassy

resonance, a china dog and cat of most gaudy colours, a whisky bottle

and two tumblers, and some winter berries in a jar.

There were two pieces of furniture in the room, however, which were

placed with an eye to attract attention, and these the Girl prized most

highly: one was a homemade rocking-chair that had been made out of a

barrel and had been dyed, unsuccessfully, with indigo blue, and had

across its back a knitted tidy with a large, upstanding, satin bow; the

other was a homemade, pine wardrobe that had been rudely decorated by

one of the boys of the camp and in which the Girl kept her dresses, and

was piled up high towards the ceiling with souvenirs of her trip to

Monterey, including the hat-boxes and wicker basket that had come well

nigh to loading down the stage on that memorable journey.

But it was upon her bed and bedroom fixings that the greatest attempt at

decoration had been made; partitioning off the room, as it were, and at

the same time forming a canopy about the bed, were curtains of cheap,

gaudy material, through the partings of which there was to be had a

glimpse of a daintily-made-up bed, whose pillows were made conspicuous

by the hand-made lace that trimmed their slips, as was the bureau-cover,

and upon which, in charming disarray, were various articles generally

included in a woman’s toilet, not to mention the numberless strings of

coloured beads and other bits of feminine adornment. A table standing

in the centre of the room was covered with a small, white cloth, while

falling in folds from beneath this was a faded, red cotton cover. The

table was laid for one, the charlotte “rusks” and “lemming”

turnover--each on a separate plate--which Nick had been commissioned to

procure, earlier in the evening, from the Palmetto restaurant, looming

up prominently in the centre; and on another plate were some chipped

beef and biscuits. A large lamp was suspended from the ceiling in the

centre of the room and was quaintly, if not grotesquely, shaded; while

other lamps flanked by composition metal reflectors concentrated light

upon the Girl’s bureau, the book-shelf and mantel, leaving the remainder

of the room in variant shadow.

All in all, what with the fire that was burning cheerily in the grate

and the strong odour of steaming coffee, the room had a soft glow and

homelike air that was most inviting.

In that brief moment that the Girl stood in the doorway reviewing her

possessions, a multitude of expressions drifted across her countenance,

a multitude of possibilities thrilled within her bosom. But however much

she would have liked to analyse these strange feelings, she resisted the

inclination and gave all her attention to the amusing scene that was

being enacted before her eyes.

For some time Billy Jackrabbit had been standing by the table looking

greedily down upon the charlotte russes there. He was on the point of

putting his finger through the centre of one of them when Wowkle--the

Indian woman-of-all-work of the cabin, who sat upon the floor before the

fire singing a lullaby to the papoose strapped to its cradle on her

back--turning suddenly her gaze in his direction, was just in time to

prevent him.

“Charlotte rusk--Palmetto rest’rant--not take,” were her warning words.

Jackrabbit drew himself up quickly, but he was furious at interference

from a source where it was wholly unexpected.

“Hm--me honest,” he growled fiercely, flashing her a malignant look.

“Huh?” was Wowkle’s monosyllabic observation delivered in a guttural

tone.

All of a sudden, Jackrabbit’s gaze was arrested by a piece of paper

which lay upon the floor and in which had been wrapped the charlotte

russes; he went over to it quickly, picked it up, opened it and

proceeded to collect on his finger the cream that had adhered to it.

“Huh!” he growled delightedly, holding up his finger for Wowkle’s

inspection. The next instant, however, he slumped down beside her upon

the floor, where both the man and the woman sat in silence gazing into

the fire. The man was the first to speak.

“Send me up--Polka. Say, p’haps me marry you--huh?” he said, coming to

the point bluntly.

Wowkle’s eyes were glued to the fire; she answered dully:

“Me don’t know.”

There was a silence, and then:

“Me don’t know,” observed Jackrabbit thoughtfully. A moment later,

however, he added: “Me marry you--how much me get give fatha--huh?”

Wowkle raised her narrowing eyes to his and told him with absolute

indifference:

“Huh--me don’t know.”

Jackrabbit’s face darkened. He pondered for a long time.

“Me don’t know--” suddenly he began and then stopped. They had been

silent for some moments, when at last he ventured: “Me give fatha four

dolla”--and here he indicated the number with his two hands, the finger

with the cream locking those of the other hand--“and one blanket.”

Wowkle’s eyes dilated.

“Better keep blanket--baby cold,” was her ambiguous answer.

Whereupon Jackrabbit emitted a low growl. Presently he handed her his

pipe, and while she puffed steadily away he fondled caressingly the

string of beads which she wore around her neck.

“You sing for get those?” he asked.

“Me sing,” she replied dully, beginning almost instantly in soft, nasal

tones:

“_My days are as um grass_”--

Jackrabbit’s face cleared.

“Huh!” he growled in rejoicement.

Immediately Wowkle edged up close to him and together they continued in

chorus:

“_Or as um faded flo’r,

Um wintry winds sweep o’er um plain,

We pe’ish in um ho’r._”

“But Gar,” said the man when the song was ended, at the same time taking

his pipe away from her, “to-morrow we go missionary--sing like hell--get

whisky.”

But as Wowkle made no answer, once more a silence fell upon them.

“We pe’ish in um ho’r,” suddenly repeated Jackrabbit, half-singing,

half-speaking the words, and rising quickly started for the door. At the

table, however, he halted and inquired: “All right--go missionary

to-morrow--get marry--huh?”

Wowkle hesitated, then rose, and finally started slowly towards him.

Half-way over she stopped and reminded him in a most apathetic manner:

“P’haps me not stay marry to you for long.”

“Huh--seven monse?” queried Jackrabbit in the same tone.

“Six monse,” came laconically from the woman.

In nowise disconcerted by her answer, the Indian now asked:

“You come soon?”

Wowkle thought a moment; then suddenly edging up close to him she

promised to come to him after the Girl had had her supper.

“Huh!” fairly roared the Indian, his coal-black eyes glowing as he

looked at her.

It was at this juncture that the Girl, after hanging up her lantern on a

peg on the outer door, broke in unexpectedly upon the strange pair of

lovers.

Dumbfounded, the woman and the man stood gaping at her. Wowkle was the

first to regain her composure, and bending over the table she turned up

the light.

“Hello, Billy Jackrabbit!” greeted the Girl, breezily. “Fixed it?”

“Me fix,” he grunted.

“That’s good! Now git!” ordered the Girl in the same happy tone that had

characterised her greeting.

Slowly, stealthily, Jackrabbit left the cabin, the two women, though for

different reasons, watching him go until the door had closed behind him.

“Now, Wowkle,” said the Girl, turning to her with a smile, “it’s for two

to-night.”

Wowkle’s eyelashes twinkled up inquisitorially.

“Huh?”

“Yep.”

Wowkle’s eyes narrowed to pin-points.

“Come anotha? Never before come anotha,” was her significant comment.

“Never you mind.” The Girl voiced the reprimand without the twitching of

an eyelid; and then as she hung up her cape upon the wardrobe, she

added: “Pick up the room, Wowkle!”

The big-hipped, full-bosomed woman did not move but stood in all her

stolidness gazing at her mistress like one in a dream; whereupon the

Girl, exasperated beyond measure at the other’s placidity, rushed over

to her and shook her so violently that she finally awakened to the

importance of her mistress’ request.

“He’s comin’ now, now; he’s comin’!” the Girl was saying, when suddenly

her eyes were attracted to a pair of stockings hanging upon the wall;

quickly she released her hold on the woman and with a hop, skip and a

jump they were down and hid away in her bureau drawer.

“My roses--what did you do with them, Wowkle?” she asked a trifle

impatiently as she fumbled in the drawer.

“Ugh!” grunted Wowkle, and pointed to a corner of the bureau top.

“Good!” cried the Girl, delightedly, as she spied them. The next instant

she was busily engaged in arranging them in her hair, pausing only to

take a pistol out of her pocket, which she laid on the edge of the

bureau. “No offence, Wowkle,” she went on thoughtfully, a moment later,

“but I want you to put your best foot forward when you’re waitin’ on

table to-night. This here company o’ mine’s a man o’ idees. Oh, he knows

everythin’! Sort of a damme style.”

Wowkle gave no sign of having heard her mistress’ words, but kept right

on tidying the room. Now she went over to the cupboard and took down two

cups, which she placed on the fireplace base. It was while she was in

the act of laying down the last one that the Girl broke in suddenly upon

her thoughts with:

“Say, Wowkle, did Billy Jackrabbit really propose to you?”

“Yep--get marry,” spoke up Jackrabbit’s promised wife without looking

up.

For some moments the Girl continued to fumble among her possessions in

the bureau drawer; at last she brought forth an orange-coloured satin

ribbon, which she placed in the Indian woman’s hands with her prettiest

smile, saying:

“Here, Wowkle, you can have that to fix up for the weddin’.”

Wowkle’s eyes glowed with appreciation.

“Huh!” she ejaculated, and proceeded to wind the ribbon about the beads

around her neck.

Turning once more to the bureau, the Girl took out a small parcel done

up in tissue paper and began to unwrap it.

“I’m goin’ to put on them, if I can git ’em on,” she said, displaying a

pair of white satin slippers. The next instant she had plumped herself

down upon the floor and was trying to encase her feet in a pair of

slippers which were much too small for them. “Remember what fun I made

o’ you when you took up with Billy Jackrabbit?” suddenly she asked with

a happy little smile. “What for? sez I. Well, p’r’aps you was right.

P’r’aps it’s nice to have someone you really care for--who belongs to

you. P’r’aps they ain’t so much in the saloon business for a woman after

all, and you don’t know what livin’ really is until--” She stopped

abruptly and threw upon the floor the slipper that refused to give to

her foot. “Oh, Wowkle,” she went on, taking up the other slipper, “it’s

nice to have someone you can talk to, someone you can turn your heart

inside out to.”

At last she had succeeded in getting into one slipper and, rising, tried

to stand in it; but it hurt her so frightfully that she immediately sank

down upon the floor and proceeded to pat and rub and coddle her foot to

ease the pain. It was while she was thus engaged that a knock came upon

her cabin door.

“Oh, Lord, here he is!” she cried, panic-stricken, and began to drag

herself hurriedly across the room with the intention of concealing

herself behind the curtain at the foot of the bed; while Wowkle, with

unusual celerity, made for the fireplace, where she stood with her back

to the door, gazing into the fire.

The Girl had only gotten half-way across the room, however, when a voice

assailed her ears.

“Miss, Miss, kin I--” came in low, subdued tones.

“What? The Sidney Duck?” she cried, turning and seeing his head poked

through the window.

“Beg pardon, Miss; I know men ain’t lowed up here nohow,” humbly

apologised that individual; “but, but--”

Vexed and flustered, the Girl turned upon him a trifle irritably with:

“Git! Git, I tell you!”

“But I’m in grite trouble, Miss,” began The Sidney Duck, tearfully. “The

boys are back--they missed that road agent Ramerrez and now they’re

taking it out of me. If--if you’d only speak a word for me, Miss.”

“No--” began the Girl, and stopped. The next instant she ordered Wowkle

to shut the window.

“Oh, don’t be ’ard on me, Miss,” whimpered the man.

The Girl flashed him a scornful look.

“Now, look here, Sidney Duck, there’s one kind o’ man I can’t stand, an’

that’s a cheat an’ a thief, an’ you’re it,” said the Girl, laying great

stress upon her words. “You’re no better’n that road agent Ramerrez,

an’--”

“But, Miss--” interrupted the man.

“Miss nothin’!” snapped back the Girl, tugging away at the slippers; in

desperation once more she ordered:

“Wowkle, close the winder! Close the winder!”

The Sidney Duck glowered at her. He had expected her intercession on his

behalf and could not understand this new attitude of hers toward him.

“Public ’ouse jide!” he retorted furiously, and slammed the window.

“Ugh!” snarled Wowkle, resentfully, her eyes full of fire.

Now at any other time, The Sidney Duck would have been made to pay

dearly for his words, but either the Girl did not hear him, or if she

did she was too engrossed to heed them; at any rate, the remark passed

unnoticed.

“I got it on!” presently exclaimed the Girl in great joy. Nevertheless,

it was not without several ouches and moans that, finally, she stood

upon her feet. “Say, Wowkle, how do you think he’ll like ’em? How do

they look? They feel awful!” she rattled on with a pained look on her

face.

But whatever would have been the Indian woman’s observation on the

subject of tight shoes in general and those of her mistress in

particular, she was not permitted to make it, for the Girl, now hobbling

over towards the bureau, went on to announce with sudden determination:

“Say, Wowkle, I’m a-goin’ the whole hog! Yes, I’m a-goin’ the whole

hog,” she repeated a moment later, as she drew forth various bits of

finery from a chest of drawers, with which she proceeded to adorn

herself before the mirror. Taking out first a lace shawl of bold design,

she drew it over her shoulders with the grace and ease of one who makes

it an everyday affair rather than an occasional undertaking; then she

took from a sweetgrass basket a vividly-embroidered handkerchief and

saturated it with cologne, impregnating the whole room with its strong

odour; finally she brought forth a pair of long, white gloves and began

to stretch them on. “Does it look like an effort, Wowkle?” she asked,

trying to get her hands into them.

“Ugh!” was the Indian woman’s comment at the very moment that a knock

came upon the door. “Two plates,” she added with a groan, and started

for the cupboard.

Meanwhile the Girl continued with her primping and preening, her hands

flying back and forth like an automaton from her waist-line to her

stockings. Suddenly another knock, this time more vigorous, more

insistent, came upon the rough boards of the cabin door, which, finally,

was answered by the Girl herself.