Colonel Starbottle's Client

by Bret Harte

  THE POSTMISTRESS OF LAUREL RUN.

  CHAPTER I.

  The mail stage had just passed Laurel Run,--so rapidly that the whirlingcloud of dust dragged with it down the steep grade from the summit hungover the level long after the stage had vanished, and then, driftingaway, slowly sifted a red precipitate over the hot platform of theLaurel Run post-office.

  Out of this cloud presently emerged the neat figure of the postmistresswith the mailbag which had been dexterously flung at her feet from thetop of the passing vehicle. A dozen loungers eagerly stretched out theirhands to assist her, but the warning: "It's agin the rules, boys, forany but her to touch it," from a bystander, and a coquettish shake ofthe head from the postmistress herself--much more effective than anyofficial interdict--withheld them. The bag was not heavy,--Laurel Runwas too recent a settlement to have attracted much correspondence,--andthe young woman, having pounced upon her prey with a certain felineinstinct, dragged it, not without difficulty, behind the partitionedinclosure in the office, and locked the door. Her pretty face,momentarily visible through the window, was slightly flushed with theexertion, and the loose ends of her fair hair, wet with perspiration,curled themselves over her forehead into tantalizing little rings. Butthe window shutter was quickly closed, and this momentary but charmingvision withdrawn from the waiting public.

  "Guv'ment oughter have more sense than to make a woman pick mail-bagsouter the road," said Jo Simmons sympathetically. "'Tain't in her day'swork anyhow; Guv'mont oughter hand 'em over to her like a lady; it'srich enough and ugly enough."

  "'Tain't Guv'ment; it's that stage company's airs and graces,"interrupted a newcomer. "They think it mighty fine to go beltin' by,makin' everybody take their dust, just because STOPPIN' ain't in theircontract. Why, if that expressman who chucked down the bag had anyfeelin's for a lady"--but he stopped here at the amused faces of hisauditors.

  "Guess you don't know much o' that expressman's feelin's, stranger,"said Simmons grimly. "Why, you oughter see him just nussin' that baglike a baby as he comes tearin' down the grade, and then rise up andsorter heave it to Mrs. Baker ez if it was a five-dollar bokay! Hisfeelin's for her! Why, he's give himself so dead away to her that we'relooking for him to forget what he's doin' next, and just come sailin'down hisself at her feet."

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the partition, Mrs. Baker had brushedthe red dust from the padlocked bag, and removed what seemed to be asupplementary package attached to it by a wire. Opening it she founda handsome scent-bottle, evidently a superadded gift from the devotedexpressman. This she put aside with a slight smile and the murmuredword, "Foolishness." But when she had unlocked the bag, even itssacred interior was also profaned by a covert parcel from the adjacentpostmaster at Burnt Ridge, containing a gold "specimen" brooch and somecircus tickets. It was laid aside with the other. This also was vanityand--presumably--vexation of spirit.

  There were seventeen letters in all, of which five were for herself--andyet the proportion was small that morning. Two of them were marked"Official Business" and were promptly put by with feminine discernment;but in another compartment than that holding the presents. Then theshutter was opened, and the task of delivery commenced.

  It was accompanied with a social peculiarity that had in time become ahabit of Laurel Run. As the young woman delivered the letters, in turn,to the men who were patiently drawn up in Indian file, she made thatsimple act a medium of privileged but limited conversation on special orgeneral topics,--gay or serious as the case might be, or the temperamentof the man suggested. That it was almost always of a complimentarycharacter on their part may be readily imagined; but it was invariablycharacterized by an element of refined restraint, and, whether from someimplied understanding or individual sense of honour, it never passed thebounds of conventionality or a certain delicacy of respect. Thedelivery was consequently more or less protracted, but when each manhad exchanged his three or four minutes' conversation with the fairpostmistress,--a conversation at times impeded by bashfulness ortimidity, on his part solely, or restricted often to vague smiling,--heresignedly made way for the next. It was a formal levee, mitigated bythe informality of rustic tact, great good-humor, and infinite patience,and would have been amusing had it not always been terribly in earnestand at times touching. For it was peculiar to the place and the epoch,and indeed implied the whole history of Mrs. Baker.

  She was the wife of John Baker, foreman of "The Last Chance," now fora year lying dead under half a mile of crushed and beaten-in tunnel atBurnt Ridge. There had been a sudden outcry from the depths at highhot noontide one day, and John had rushed from his cabin--his young,foolish, flirting wife clinging to him--to answer that despairing cry ofhis imprisoned men. There was one exit that he alone knew which might beyet held open, among falling walls and tottering timbers, long enough toset them free. For one moment only the strong man hesitated between herentreating arms and his brothers' despairing cry. But she rose suddenlywith a pale face, and said, "Go, John; I will wait for you here." Hewent, the men were freed--but she had waited for him ever since!

  Yet in the shock of the calamity and in the after struggles of thatpoverty which had come to the ruined camp, she had scarcely changed. Butthe men had. Although she was to all appearances the same giddy, prettyBetsy Baker, who had been so disturbing to the younger members, theyseemed to be no longer disturbed by her. A certain subdued awe andrespect, as if the martyred spirit of John Baker still held his armaround her, appeared to have come upon them all. They held their breathas this pretty woman, whose brief mourning had not seemed to affect hercheerfulness or even playfulness of spirit, passed before them. But shestood by her cabin and the camp--the only woman in a settlement of fortymen--during the darkest hours of their fortune. Helping them to wash andcook, and ministering to their domestic needs, the sanctity of her cabinwas, however, always kept as inviolable as if it had been HIS tomb. Noone exactly knew why, for it was only a tacit instinct; but even one ortwo who had not scrupled to pay court to Betsy Baker during John Baker'slife, shrank from even a suggestion of familiarity towards the woman whohad said that she would "wait for him there."

  When brighter days came and the settlement had increased by one or twofamilies, and laggard capital had been hurried up to relieve the stillbeleaguered and locked-up wealth of Burnt Ridge, the needs of thecommunity and the claims of the widow of John Baker were so well toldin political quarters that the post-office of Laurel Run was createdexpressly for her. Every man participated in the building of the prettyyet substantial edifice--the only public building of Laurel Run--thatstood in the dust of the great highway, half a mile from the settlement.There she was installed for certain hours of the day, for she could notbe prevailed upon to abandon John's cabin, and here, with all the addedrespect due to a public functionary, she was secure in her privacy.

  But the blind devotion of Laurel Run to John Baker's relict did not stophere. In its zeal to assure the Government authorities of the necessityfor a post-office, and to secure a permanent competency to thepostmistress, there was much embarrassing extravagance. During the firstweek the sale of stamps at Laurel Run post-office was unprecedentedin the annals of the Department. Fancy prices were given for the firstissue; then they were bought wildly, recklessly, unprofitably, andon all occasions. Complimentary congratulation at the little windowinvariably ended with "and a dollar's worth of stamps, Mrs. Baker." Itwas felt to be supremely delicate to buy only the highest priced stamps,without reference to their adequacy; then mere QUANTITY was sought; thenoutgoing letters were all over-paid and stamped in outrageous proportionto their weight and even size. The imbecility of this, and its probableeffect on the reputation of Laurel Run at the General Post-office, beingpointed out by Mrs. Baker, stamps were adopted as local currency,and even for decorative purposes on mirrors and the walls of cabins.Everybody wrote letters, with the result, however, that those SENT wereludicrously and suspiciously in excess of those received. To obviatethis, select parties made forced journeys to Hickory Hill, th
e nextpost-office, with letters and circulars addressed to themselves atLaurel Run. How long the extravagance would have continued is notknown, but it was not until it was rumored that, in consequence ofthis excessive flow of business, the Department had concluded that apostMASTER would be better fitted for the place that it abated, and acompromise was effected with the General Office by a permanent salary tothe postmistress.

  Such was the history of Mrs. Baker, who had just finished her afternoonlevee, nodded a smiling "good-by" to her last customer, and closed hershutter again. Then she took up her own letters, but, before readingthem, glanced, with a pretty impatience, at the two official envelopesaddressed to herself, which she had shelved. They were generally a "lotof new rules," or notifications, or "absurd" questions which had nothingto do with Laurel Run and only bothered her and "made her head ache,"and she had usually referred them to her admiring neighbor at HickoryHill for explanation, who had generally returned them to her with thebrief indorsement, "Purp stuff, don't bother," or, "Hog wash, let itslide." She remembered now that he had not returned the last two. Withknitted brows and a slight pout she put aside her private correspondenceand tore open the first one. It referred with official curtness to anunanswered communication of the previous week, and was "compelled toremind her of rule 47." Again those horrid rules! She opened the other;the frown deepened on her brow, and became fixed.

  It was a summary of certain valuable money letters that had miscarriedon the route, and of which they had given her previous information.For a moment her cheeks blazed. How dare they; what did they mean! Herwaybills and register were always right; she knew the names of everyman, woman, and child in her district; no such names as those borne bythe missing letters had ever existed at Laurel Run; no such addresseshad ever been sent from Laurel Run post-office. It was a meaninsinuation! She would send in her resignation at once! She would get"the boys" to write an insulting letter to Senator Slocumb,--Mrs.Baker had the feminine idea of Government as a purely personalinstitution,--and she would find out who it was that had put them up tothis prying, crawling impudence! It was probably that wall-eyed oldwife of the postmaster at Heavy Tree Crossing, who was jealous of her."Remind her of their previous unanswered communication," indeed! Wherewas that communication, anyway? She remembered she had sent it to heradmirer at Hickory Hill. Odd that he hadn't answered it. Of course, heknew about this meanness--could he, too, have dared to suspect her! Thethought turned her crimson again. He, Stanton Green, was an old "LaurelRunner," a friend of John's, a little "triflin'" and "presoomin'," butstill an old loyal pioneer of the camp! "Why hadn't he spoke up?"

  There was the soft, muffled fall of a horse's hoof in the thick dust ofthe highway, the jingle of dismounting spurs, and a firm tread on theplatform. No doubt one of the boys returning for a few supplementalremarks under the feeble pretense of forgotten stamps. It had been donebefore, and she had resented it as "cayotin' round;" but now she waseager to pour out her wrongs to the first comer. She had her handimpulsively on the door of the partition, when she stopped with a newsense of her impaired dignity. Could she confess this to her worshipers?But here the door opened in her very face, and a stranger entered.

  He was a man of fifty, compactly and strongly built. A squarely-cutgoatee, slightly streaked with gray, fell straight from his thin-lippedbut handsome mouth; his eyes were dark, humorous, yet searching. But thedistinctive quality that struck Mrs Baker was the blending of urban easewith frontier frankness. He was evidently a man who had seen cities andknew countries as well. And while he was dressed with the comfortablesimplicity of a Californian mounted traveler, her inexperiencedbut feminine eye detected the keynote of his respectability in thecarefully-tied bow of his cravat. The Sierrean throat was apt to beopen, free, and unfettered.

  "Good-morning, Mrs. Baker," he said, pleasantly, with his hat already inhis hand, "I'm Harry Home, of San Francisco." As he spoke his eyeswept approvingly over the neat inclosure, the primly-tied papers, andwell-kept pigeon-holes; the pot of flowers on her desk; her china-silkmantle, and killing little chip hat and ribbons hanging against thewall; thence to her own pink, flushed face, bright blue eyes, tendriledclinging hair, and then--fell upon the leathern mailbag still lyingacross the table. Here it became fixed on the unfortunate wire of theamorous expressman that yet remained hanging from the brass wards of thelock, and he reached his hand toward it.

  But little Mrs. Baker was before him, and had seized it in her arms. Shehad been too preoccupied and bewildered to resent his first intrusionbehind the partition, but this last familiarity with her sacred officialproperty--albeit empty--capped the climax of her wrongs.

  "How dare you touch it!" she said indignantly. "How dare you come inhere! Who are you, anyway? Go outside, at once!"

  The stranger fell back with an amused, deprecatory gesture, and along silent laugh. "I'm afraid you don't know me, after all!" he saidpleasantly. "I'm Harry Home, the Department Agent from the San Franciscooffice. My note of advice, No. 201, with my name on the envelope, seemsto have miscarried too."

  Even in her fright and astonishment it flashed upon Mrs. Baker that shehad sent that notice, too, to Hickory Hill. But with it all the femininesecretive instinct within her was now thoroughly aroused, and she keptsilent.

  "I ought to have explained," he went on smilingly; "but you are quiteright, Mrs. Baker," he added, nodding towards the bag. "As far as youknew, I had no business to go near it. Glad to see you know how todefend Uncle Sam's property so well. I was only a bit puzzled toknow" (pointing to the wire) "if that thing was on the bag when it wasdelivered to you?"

  Mrs. Baker saw no reason to conceal the truth. After all, this officialwas a man like the others, and it was just as well that he shouldunderstand her power. "It's only the expressman's foolishness," shesaid, with a slightly coquettish toss of her head. "He thinks it smartto tie some nonsense on that bag with the wire when he flings it down."

  Mr. Home, with his eyes on her pretty face, seemed to think it a notinhuman or unpardonable folly. "As long as he doesn't meddle withthe inside of the bag, I suppose you must put up with it," he saidlaughingly. A dreadful recollection, that the Hickory Hill postmasterhad used the inside of the bag to convey HIS foolishness, came acrossher. It would never do to confess it now. Her face must have shownsome agitation, for the official resumed with a half-paternal,half-reassuring air: "But enough of this. Now, Mrs. Baker, to come tomy business here. Briefly, then, it doesn't concern you in the least,except so far as it may relieve you and some others, whom the Departmentknows equally well, from a certain responsibility, and, perhaps,anxiety. We are pretty well posted down there in all that concernsLaurel Run, and I think" (with a slight bow) "we've known all about youand John Baker. My only business here is to take your place to-nightin receiving the 'Omnibus Way Bag,' that you know arrives here at 9.30,doesn't it?"

  "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Baker hurriedly; "but it never has anything forus, except"--(she caught herself up quickly, with a stammer, asshe remembered the sighing Green's occasional offerings) "except anotification from Hickory Hill post-office. It leaves there," she wenton with an affectation of precision, "at half past eight exactly, andit's about an hour's run--seven miles by road."

  "Exactly," said Mr. Home. "Well, I will receive the bag, open it, anddispatch it again. You can, if you choose, take a holiday."

  "But," said Mrs. Baker, as she remembered that Laurel Run always made apoint of attending her evening levee on account of the superior leisureit offered, "there are the people who come for letters, you know."

  "I thought you said there were no letters at that time," said Mr. Homequickly.

  "No--but--but"--(with a slight hysterical stammer) "the boys come allthe same."

  "Oh!" said Mr. Home dryly.

  "And--O Lord!"--But here the spectacle of the possible discomfiture ofLaurel Run at meeting the bearded face of Mr. Home, instead of her ownsmooth cheeks, at the window, combined with her nervous excitement,overcame her so that, throwing her little frilled apron over
her head,she gave way to a paroxym of hysterical laughter. Mr. Home waited withamused toleration for it to stop, and, when she had recovered, resumed."Now, I should like to refer an instant to my first communication toyou. Have you got it handy?"

  Mrs. Baker's face fell. "No; I sent it over to Mr. Green, of HickoryHill, for information."

  "What!"

  Terrified at the sudden seriousness of the man's voice, she managed togasp out, however, that, after her usual habit, she had not opened theofficial letters, but had sent them to her more experienced colleaguefor advice and information; that she never could understand themherself,--they made her head ache, and interfered with her otherduties,--but HE understood them, and sent her word what to do.Remembering also his usual style of indorsement, she grew red again.

  "And what did he say?"

  "Nothing; he didn't return them."

  "Naturally," said Mr. Home, with a peculiar expression. After a fewmoments' silent stroking of his beard, he suddenly faced the frightenedwoman.

  "You oblige me, Mrs. Baker, to speak more frankly to you than I hadintended. You have--unwittingly, I believe--given information to a manwhom the Government suspects of peculation. You have, without knowingit, warned the postmaster at Hickory Hill that he is suspected; and,as you might have frustrated our plans for tracing a series ofembezzlements to their proper source, you will see that you might havealso done great wrong to yourself as his only neighbor and the nextresponsible person. In plain words, we have traced the disappearance ofmoney letters to a point when it lies between these two offices. Now,I have not the least hesitation in telling you that we do not suspectLaurel Run, and never have suspected it. Even the result of yourthoughtless act, although it warned him, confirms our suspicion of hisguilt. As to the warning, it has failed, or he has grown reckless, foranother letter has been missed since. To-night, however, will settle alldoubt in the matter. When I open that bag in this office to-night, anddo not find a certain decoy letter in it, which was last checked atHeavy Tree Crossing, I shall know that it remains in Green's possessionat Hickory Hill."

  She was sitting back in her chair, white and breathless. He glanced ather kindly, and then took up his hat. "Come, Mrs. Baker, don't let thisworry you. As I told you at first, YOU have nothing to fear. Even yourthoughtlessness and ignorance of rules have contributed to show your owninnocence. Nobody will ever be the wiser for this; we do not advertiseour affairs in the Department. Not a soul but yourself knows the realcause of my visit here. I will leave you here alone for a while, so asto divert any suspicion. You will come, as usual, this evening, and beseen by your friends; I will only be here when the bag arrives, to openit. Good-by, Mrs. Baker; it's a nasty bit of business, but it's all inthe day's work. I've seen worse, and, thank God, you're out of it."

  She heard his footsteps retreat into the outer office and die out of theplatform; the jingle of his spurs, and the hollow beat of his horse'shoofs that seemed to find a dull echo in her own heart, and she wasalone.

  The room was very hot and very quiet; she could hear the warpingand creaking of the shingles under the relaxing of the nearly levelsunbeams. The office clock struck seven. In the breathless silence thatfollowed, a woodpecker took up his interrupted work on the roof,and seemed to beat out monotonously on her ear the last words of thestranger: Stanton Green--a thief! Stanton Green, one of the "boys" Johnhad helped out of the falling tunnel! Stanton Green, whose old mother inthe States still wrote letters to him at Laurel Run, in a few hoursto be a disgraced and ruined man forever! She remembered now, as athoughtless woman remembers, tales of his extravagance and fast living,of which she had taken no heed, and, with a sense of shame, of presentssent her, that she now clearly saw must have been far beyond his means.What would the boys say? What would John have said? Ah! what would Johnhave DONE!

  She started suddenly to her feet, white and cold as on that day thatshe had parted from John Baker before the tunnel. She put on her hatand mantle, and going to that little iron safe that stood in the corner,unlocked it and took out its entire contents of gold and silver. She hadreached the door when another idea seized her, and opening her desk shecollected her stamps to the last sheet, and hurriedly rolled them upunder her cape. Then with a glance at the clock, and a rapid surveyof the road from the platform, she slipped from it, and seemed to beswallowed up in the waiting woods beyond.

  CHAPTER II.

  Once within the friendly shadows of the long belt of pines, Mrs. Bakerkept them until she had left the limited settlement of Laurel Run far tothe right, and came upon an open slope of Burnt Ridge, where she knewJo Simmons' mustang, Blue Lightning, would be quietly feeding. She hadoften ridden him before, and when she had detached the fifty-foot reatafrom his head-stall, he permitted her the further recognized familiarityof twining her fingers in his bluish mane and climbing on his back. Thetool-shed of Burnt Ridge Tunnel, where Jo's saddle and bridle alwayshung, was but a canter farther on. She reached it unperceived,and--another trick of the old days--quickly extemporized a side-saddlefrom Simmons' Mexican tree, with its high cantle and horn bow, and theaid of a blanket. Then leaping to her seat, she rapidly threw off hermantle, tied it by its sleeves around her waist, tucked it underone knee, and let it fall over her horse's flanks. By this time BlueLightning was also struck with a flash of equine recollection andpricked up his ears. Mrs. Baker uttered a little chirping cry which heremembered, and the next moment they were both careering over the Ridge.

  The trail that she had taken, though precipitate, difficult, anddangerous in places, was a clear gain of two miles on the stage road.There was less chance of her being followed or meeting any one. Thegreater canyons were already in shadow; the pines on the farther ridgeswere separating their masses, and showing individual silhouettes againstthe sky, but the air was still warm, and the cool breath of night, asshe well knew it, had not yet begun to flow down the mountain. The lowerrange of Burnt Ridge was still uneclipsed by the creeping shadow ofthe mountain ahead of her. Without a watch, but with this familiarand slowly changing dial spread out before her, she knew the time to aminute. Heavy Tree Hill, a lesser height in the distance, was alreadywiped out by that shadowy index finger--half past seven! The stage wouldbe at Hickory Hill just before half past eight; she ought to anticipateit, if possible,--it would stay ten minutes to change horses,--she MUSTarrive before it left!

  There was a good two-mile level before the rise of the next range. Now,Blue Lightning! all you know! And that was much,--for with the littlechip hat and fluttering ribbons well bent down over the bluish mane, andthe streaming gauze of her mantle almost level with the horse's back,she swept down across the long tableland like a skimming blue-jay. A fewmore bird-like dips up and down the undulations, and then came the long,cruel ascent of the Divide.

  Acrid with perspiration, caking with dust, slithering in the slippery,impalpable powder of the road, groggily staggering in a red dusty dream,coughing, snorting, head-tossing; becoming suddenly dejected, withslouching haunch and limp legs on easy slopes, or wildly spasmodicand agile on sharp acclivities, Blue Lightning began to have ideas andrecollections! Ah! she was a devil for a lark--this lightly-clinging,caressing, blarneying, cooing creature--up there! He remembered her now.Ha! very well then. Hoop-la! And suddenly leaping out like a rabbit,bucking, trotting hard, ambling lightly, "loping" on three legs andrecreating himself,--as only a California mustang could,--the invincibleBlue Lightning at last stood triumphantly upon the summit. The eveningstar had just pricked itself through the golden mist of the horizonline,--eight o'clock! She could do it now! But here, suddenly, her firsthesitation seized her. She knew her horse, she knew the trail, she knewherself,--but did she know THE MAN to whom she was riding? A cold chillcrept over her, and then she shivered in a sudden blast; it was Night atlast swooping down from the now invisible Sierras, and possessing all ittouched. But it was only one long descent to Hickory Hill now, and sheswept down securely on its wings. Half-past eight! The lights of thesettlement were just ahead of her--but so, too, wer
e the two lamps ofthe waiting stage before the post-office and hotel.

  Happily the lounging crowd were gathered around the hotel, and sheslipped into the post-office from the rear, unperceived. As she steppedbehind the partition, its only occupant--a good-looking young fellowwith a reddish mustache--turned towards her with a flush of delightedsurprise. But it changed at the sight of the white, determined faceand the brilliant eyes that had never looked once towards him, but werefixed upon a large bag, whose yawning mouth was still open and proppedup beside his desk.

  "Where is the through money letter that came in that bag?" she saidquickly.

  "What--do--you--mean?" he stammered, with a face that had suddenly grownwhiter than her own.

  "I mean that it's a DECOY, checked at Heavy Tree Crossing, and that Mr.Home, of San Francisco, is now waiting at my office to know if you havetaken it!"

  The laugh and lie that he had at first tried to summon to mouth and lipsnever reached them. For, under the spell of her rigid, truthful face, heturned almost mechanically to his desk, and took out a package.

  "Good God! you've opened it already!" she cried, pointing to the brokenseal.

  The expression on her face, more than anything she had said, convincedhim that she knew all. He stammered under the new alarm that herdespairing tone suggested. "Yes!--I was owing some bills--the collectorwas waiting here for the money, and I took something from the packet.But I was going to make it up by next mail--I swear it."

  "How much have you taken?"

  "Only a trifle. I"--

  "How much?"

  "A hundred dollars!"

  She dragged the money she had brought from Laurel Run from her pocket,and counting out the sum, replaced it in the open package. He ranquickly to get the sealing wax, but she motioned him away as she droppedthe package back into the mail-bag. "No; as long as the money is foundin the bag the package may have been broken ACCIDENTALLY. Now burst openone or two of those other packages a little--so;" she took out a packetof letters and bruised their official wrappings under her little footuntil the tape fastening was loosened. "Now give me something heavy."She caught up a brass two-pound weight, and in the same feverishbut collected haste wrapped it in paper, sealed it, stamped it, and,addressing it in a large printed hand to herself at Laurel Hill, droppedit in the bag. Then she closed it and locked it; he would have assistedher, but she again waved him away. "Send for the expressman, and keepyourself out of the way for a moment," she said curtly.

  An attitude of weak admiration and foolish passion had taken the placeof his former tremulous fear. He obeyed excitedly, but without a word.Mrs. Baker wiped her moist forehead and parched lips, and shook outher skirt. Well might the young expressman start at the unexpectedrevelation of those sparkling eyes and that demurely smiling mouth atthe little window.

  "Mrs. Baker!"

  She put her finger quickly to her lips, and threw a world of unutterableand enigmatical meaning into her mischievous face.

  "There's a big San Francisco swell takin' my place at Laurel to-night,Charley."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "And it's a pity that the Omnibus Way Bag happened to get such a shakingup and banging round already, coming here."

  "Eh?"

  "I say," continued Mrs. Baker, with great gravity and dancing eyes,"that it would be just AWFUL if that keerful city clerk found thingskinder mixed up inside when he comes to open it. I wouldn't give himtrouble for the world, Charley."

  "No, ma'am, it ain't like you."

  "So you'll be particularly careful on MY account."

  "Mrs. Baker," said Charley, with infinite gravity, "if that bag SHOULDTUMBLE OFF A DOZEN TIMES between this and Laurel Hill, I'll hop down andpick it up myself."

  "Thank you! shake!"

  They shook hands gravely across the window-ledge.

  "And you ain't going down with us, Mrs. Baker?"

  "Of course not; it wouldn't do,--for I AIN'T HERE,--don't you see?"

  "Of course!"

  She handed him the bag through the door. He took it carefully, but inspite of his great precaution fell over it twice on his way to theroad, where from certain exclamations and shouts it seemed that a likemiserable mischance attended its elevation to the boot. Then Mrs. Bakercame back into the office, and, as the wheels rolled away, threw herselfinto a chair, and inconsistently gave way for the first time to anoutburst of tears. Then her hand was grasped suddenly and she foundGreen on his knees before her. She started to her feet.

  "Don't move," he said, with weak hysteric passion, "but listen to me,for God's sake! I am ruined, I know, even though you have just saved mefrom detection and disgrace. I have been mad!--a fool, to do what I havedone, I know, but you do not know all--you do not know why I did it--youcannot think of the temptation that has driven me to it. Listen, Mrs.Baker. I have been striving to get money, honestly, dishonestly--anyway, to look well in YOUR eyes--to make myself worthy of you--to makemyself rich, and to be able to offer you a home and take you away fromLaurel Run. It was all for YOU, it was all for love of YOU, Betsy, mydarling. Listen to me!"

  In the fury, outraged sensibility, indignation, and infinite disgustthat filled her little body at that moment, she should have been large,imperious, goddess-like, and commanding. But God is at times ironicalwith suffering womanhood. She could only writhe her hand from his graspwith childish contortions; she could only glare at him with eyes thatwere prettily and piquantly brilliant; she could only slap at hisdetaining hand with a plump and velvety palm, and when she found hervoice it was high falsetto. And all she could say was, "Leave me be,looney, or I'll scream!"

  He rose, with a weak, confused laugh, half of miserable affectation andhalf of real anger and shame.

  "What did you come riding over here for, then? What did you take allthis risk for? Why did you rush over here to share my disgrace--for YOUare as much mixed up with this now as I am--if you didn't calculate toshare EVERYTHING ELSE with me? What did you come here for, then, if notfor ME?"

  "What did I come here for?" said Mrs. Baker, with every drop of redblood gone from her cheek and trembling lip. "What--did--I--come herefor? Well!--I came here for JOHN BAKER'S sake! John Baker, who stoodbetween you and death at Burnt Ridge, as I stand between you anddamnation at Laurel Run, Mr. Green! Yes, John Baker, lying under half ofBurnt Ridge, but more to me this day than any living man crawling overit--in--in"--oh, fatal climax!--"in a month o' Sundays! What did I comehere for? I came here as John Baker's livin' wife to carry on dead JohnBaker's work. Yes, dirty work this time, may be, Mr. Green! but his workand for HIM only--precious! That's what I came here for; that's whatI LIVE for; that's what I'm waiting for--to be up to HIM and his workalways! That's me--Betsy Baker!"

  She walked up and down rapidly, tying her chip hat under her chin again.Then she stopped, and taking her chamois purse from her pocket, laid itsharply on the desk.

  "Stanton Green, don't be a fool! Rise up out of this, and be a managain. Take enough out o' that bag to pay what you owe Gov'ment, sendin your resignation, and keep the rest to start you in an honest lifeelsewhere. But light out o' Hickory Hill afore this time to-morrow."

  She pulled her mantle from the wall and opened the door.

  "You are going?" he said bitterly.

  "Yes." Either she could not hold seriousness long in her capriciouslittle fancy, or, with feminine tact, she sought to make the partingless difficult for him, for she broke into a dazzling smile. "Yes, I'mgoin' to run Blue Lightning agin Charley and that way bag back to LaurelRun, and break the record."

  *****

  It is said that she did! Perhaps owing to the fact that the grade of thereturn journey to Laurel Run was in her favor, and that she could avoidthe long, circuitous ascent to the summit taken by the stage, or that,owing to the extraordinary difficulties in the carriage of the waybag,--which had to be twice rescued from under the wheels of thestage,--she entered the Laurel Run post-office as the coach leaders cametrotting up the hill. Mr. Home was already on the platform.

&nb
sp; "You'll have to ballast your next way bag, boss," said Charley, gravely,as it escaped his clutches once more in the dust of the road, "or you'llhave to make a new contract with the company. We've lost ten minutes infive miles over that bucking thing."

  Home did not reply, but quickly dragged his prize into the office,scarcely noticing Mrs. Baker, who stood beside him pale and breathless.As the bolt of the bag was drawn, revealing its chaotic interior, Mrs.Baker gave a little sigh. Home glanced quickly at her, emptied the bagupon the floor, and picked up the broken and half-filled money parcel.Then he collected the scattered coins and counted them. "It's all right,Mrs. Baker," he said gravely. "HE'S safe this time."

  "I'm so glad!" said little Mrs. Baker, with a hypocritical gasp.

  "So am I," returned Home, with increasing gravity, as he took the coin,"for, from all I have gathered this afternoon, it seems he was an oldpioneer of Laurel Run, a friend of your husband's, and, I think, morefool than knave!" He was silent for a moment, clicking the coins againsteach other; then he said carelessly: "Did he get quite away, Mrs.Baker?"

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," said Mrs. Baker, witha lofty air of dignity, but a somewhat debasing color. "I don't see whyI should know anything about it, or why he should go away at all."

  "Well," said Mr. Home, laying his hand gently on the widow's shoulder,"well, you see, it might have occurred to his friends that the COINSWERE MARKED! That is, no doubt, the reason why he would take their goodadvice and go. But, as I said before, Mrs. Baker, YOU'RE all right,whatever happens,--the Government stands by YOU!"