NRLF 
 
 B 4 353 644 
 
 1 
 
 '>VARY HALLOCK>OOTE 
 
S 'TY 
 
 0ff 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOH. 
 
 THE LED-HOR3E CLfllM. 
 
 I vol. I6mo. Illustrated by the Author. 
 $1.25. 
 
 A THRILLING STORY OF THE MINING 
 CAMPS OF COLORADO. 
 
 "Unusual depth and charm." St. Paul Pioneer- 
 Press. 
 
 "A charming story charmingly illustrated." New 
 York Times. 
 
 "It is a truly fascinating piece of American fiction, 
 and the author's illustrations are admirable." Phila 
 delphia Press. 
 
 "The most vigorous romance of mining life that has 
 been written since Bret Harte's stories." New York 
 World. 
 
 " Mrs. Foote's first novel has raised her to a level on 
 which she is only to be compared with our best women 
 novelists. To make this comparison briefly, Miss Wool- 
 son observes keenly, Mrs. Burnett writes charmingly, 
 and Mrs. Foote feels intensely." The Critic. 
 
 Sold by 'booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of 
 price by the publishers, 
 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY, 
 

 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY HALLOCK FOOTE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE LED-HORSE CLAIM," "FRIEND BARTON'S 
 CONCERN," ETC. 
 
 BOSTON 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1885 AND 1886, BY THE CENTURY Co. 
 
 AND lSS6, BY TlCKNOR & Co. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 C. J. PETERS & SON, BOSTON. 
 
/691 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. IN THE BURNT WOODS 9 
 
 II. A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS 22 
 
 III. MRS. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER 38 
 
 IY. THE CAMP-FIRE 49 
 
 Y. AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER 64 
 
 VI. JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION 74 
 
 VII. MR. CRAIG GOES A-HUNTING 91 
 
 VIII. BODEWIN'S SISTER 103 
 
 IX. THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED . . 118 
 
 X. THE VALLEY TRAIL 133 
 
 XL AN ANONYMOUS LETTER 147 
 
 XII. DEAD OR MISSING 156 
 
 XIII. ON THE KOAD TO THE PASS 169 
 
 XIV. A MESSAGE TO THE CAMP 180 
 
 XV. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 186 
 
 XVI. BABE 198 
 
 XVII. AMATEUR SURGERY 208 
 
 XVIII. ANOTHER OBLIGATION 224 
 
 XIX. THE PRICE OF BODEWIN'S LIBERTY . . . 238 
 
 XX. A STAR is HIDDEN 248 
 
 5 
 
JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I1ST THE BUENT WOODS. 
 
 THE western slope of the Park range, as it 
 sinks into the valley of the Arkansas, is clothed 
 to the timber-line with monotonous forests of 
 pine and fir. In winter this dark zone of trees 
 looks darker for the zone of snows above it ; in 
 spring the patches of sunlight on the mountain 
 side bring out a paler and more vivid green ; the 
 lower gulches, lined with aspens, in autumn show 
 a streak of faded gold ; but at all seasons, from 
 the highest of the mountain's lights to the deep 
 est of its shadows, the range of color is slight. 
 
 The deepest shadow on the mountains is one 
 which does not change with the seasons or pass 
 with the clouds. It covers an area of many acres. 
 Within its limits the trees are still standing, but 
 leafless and blackened from root to crown. They 
 are the unburied dead which the forest fires have 
 
 9 
 
10 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 left on the field after one of their wild forays. 
 In the course of years the wind will flay them 
 and the snows will bleach them to the grayish 
 whiteness of old bones. But in the summer of 
 187-, when the Eagle Bird and Uinta lode claims 
 were first discovered, the burnt woods which cov 
 ered them had but just met their fate. Each 
 separate tree was an effigy of desolation, uplifting 
 its charred and rigid limbs as if in mute attesta 
 tion of its wrongs. The wind could get no more 
 music out of them ; the few birds which nested so 
 far above the valley forsook their branches ; the 
 traveller missed their spicy shade. They could 
 no longer offer either rest, shelter, or concealment 
 to any living creature. But their neighborhood 
 was as good as any other for the location of a 
 mine. 
 
 Colonel Harkins, the owner of the Eagle Bird 
 and the Uinta, did not trouble himself about his 
 environment. He looked about him and saw that 
 the dead trees were fit for fuel, if not for build 
 ing and the timbering of shafts. He saw that the 
 slope of the hill was sufficient for drainage, and 
 for the future ore-dumps of unknown value to 
 lean their cone-shaped mounds against. He 
 reckoned the cost of a wagon-road to the nearest 
 
IN THE BURNT WOODS. 11 
 
 camp, two miles away, which formed the nucleus 
 of many lesser camps and outlying mines scat 
 tered far and near along the sides of the range or 
 concealed in the folds of its forest garment. 
 
 An old hunter's and prospector's trail, starting 
 in the valley, took its way deviously but always 
 upwards in the direction of the pass. A short 
 distance beyond the two claims it was joined by a 
 trail from the camp. Thus the new mines, though 
 lonely in their situation, were not inaccessible. 
 
 One afternoon, about four o'clock, a man came 
 out of the Eagle Bird tunnel, extinguished his 
 candle as its rays turned sickly in the daylight, 
 and, mounting his horse, followed the trail which 
 led onward into the forest. The sun stood 
 nearly opposite across the valley, and he raised his 
 hand to his hat-brim, as if blinded by the glare. 
 He sat his horse easily, lounging a little forward 
 after the manner of men who spend many hours 
 in the saddle in solitary, uneventful journey ings. 
 He was a youngish, slenderly made man, with a 
 distinctly good bearing. Even as he jogged 
 along on his bald-faced bay in the bleak untem- 
 pered light, you felt that he was one whom life 
 had refined and sobered, if it had not distin 
 guished him with any great measure of joy or of 
 
12 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 success. His thin, smooth cheeks were darkly 
 tanned ; the close-shorn, light-brown hair, without 
 a trace of gold in it, showed by its difference of 
 texture rather than color against his temples and 
 neck. His hands were the slender, pointed hands 
 which go with a supple, small-jointed frame. His 
 beauty, what there was of it, consisted chiefly in 
 this harmony of parts, uniting in a personality 
 unique but singularly unaggressive. The rider's 
 name was John Bodewin. 
 
 The trail, now turning away from the valley, 
 gave him the benefit of his own shadow opposed 
 to the sun. Its broad light streamed before him 
 into the forest and shone full in the faces of two 
 people at a little distance from him, who had 
 turned at the sound of his horse's feet, a mid 
 dle-aged gentleman, seated in a rather disconso 
 late attitude on the smooth, barkless trunk of a 
 fallen tree, and a young lady in a riding-habit, 
 who stood near him and was speaking to him 
 when Bodewin saw them first. The gentleman 
 was of stout proportions and fresh complexion, 
 intensified by a recent coat of sunburn. Bode 
 win recognized Mr. Newbold at once ; the dark- 
 eyed girl beside him was presumably Mr. 
 Newbold's daughter. 
 
IN THE BURNT WOODS. 13 
 
 "Did you ever know anything so still as this 
 place ? " she had been saying. " I cannot hear a 
 sound except that horse's tread. Some one is 
 coming who is in no hurry, it seems." 
 
 A moment later Bodewin appeared at the turn 
 of the trail. 
 
 "He's in no hurry," Mr. Newbold remarked 
 sulkily, eyeing the horseman's approach, " if he 
 takes his own business as coolly as he does other 
 people's." 
 
 "Do you know him, papa?" the girl asked in 
 surprise. Bodewin had welcomed the sight of a 
 fair woman in the forest, and involuntarily paid it 
 the homage of a more erect seat in his saddle, and 
 a hasty restoration of his hat from the angle of 
 comfort on a hot afternoon, with the sun on the 
 back of one's neck, to the level of decorum under 
 all circumstances. He passed the group at his 
 horse's slowest walk. 
 
 "How d'you do, Bodewin? Still here, you 
 see," Mr. Newbold said, touching his hat to him. 
 
 Bodewin made some civil though inaudible reply. 
 He had a speaking acquaintance with Mr. Newbold, 
 but he could hardly have been surprised to see him 
 there or elsewhere, since that gentleman's system 
 of movements was quite unknown to him. 
 
14 
 
 Miss Newbold had been two weeks in the 
 camp, and Bodewin had not sought to see her 
 or be presented to her for reasons personal, refer- 
 
 rring to her father, and local, referring to the city 
 of her father's adoption. He had a preconceived 
 idea of what a Kansas City girl was likely to be. 
 But who was he, John Bodewin, a native of one 
 of the little Sound cities of Connecticut, that he 
 should be setting up geographical standards and 
 prejudging his countrywomen by them ? And 
 what was there about Newbold to make it incredi 
 ble that he should be the father of a girl, too 
 handsome not to be supposed to know it herself, 
 who kept her quiet pose under the eyes of a 
 stranger with an unconcern that had in it as little 
 of bravado as of stolidity? 
 
 " So that is Mr. John Bodewin ! " Miss New- 
 bold said, with meditative emphasis. 
 
 "It's queer you should never have seen Bode 
 win ! " her father remarked. 
 
 " I think I did see him once, without knowing 
 it was he, coming out of the Wiltsie House with 
 Mr. Craig." 
 
 " Where were you ? " 
 
 " I was looking out of our window, papa, hop 
 ing every next man on the street would be you. 
 
IN THE BURNT WOODS. 15 
 
 It was nearly eight o'clock, and I was simply 
 perishing for my dinner." 
 
 " I suppose I must have come along after a 
 while, as you didn't perish," said Mr. Newbold. 
 " When was it you were so near dissolution ? " 
 
 " It was on Saturday, the nineteenth of June. 
 I remember the date, because that morning you 
 first told me about the lawsuit, and the text on 
 my calendar was 4 Keep o' the windy side of the 
 law' 'especially mining law,' I wrote under 
 neath, and pinned it in the frame of your looking- 
 glass. But you did not see it, because that after 
 noon our rooms were changed." 
 
 "You and Bodewin must consult the same 
 oracle," said Mr. Newbold. " It was on that 
 afternoon in Craig's office he positively refused 
 to go on the case." 
 
 "Did he give you his reasons for declining, 
 papa, or don't they give reasons?" 
 
 " They do as they choose, generally. Bodewin 
 choose to keep his to himself." 
 
 "I suppose he thinks we are quite in the 
 wrong, and is too polite to say so." 
 
 " What he thinks is not precisely what we are 
 after." Mr. Newbold moved restlessly and felt 
 in his pockets for a handkerchief with which he 
 
16 
 
 removed the marks of charred pine-wood from his 
 fingers. " He is supposed to have in his posses 
 sion the facts we need to complete our case. If 
 he would consent to part with them on the 
 witness-stand, he might keep his opinion and 
 welcome." 
 
 " Are these facts Mr. Bode win's property ex 
 clusively, papa ? " 
 
 " So far as I know, they are." 
 
 " Why, how wretched of him ! He might as 
 well be a Uinta man and done with it ! Is he, do 
 you suppose ? " 
 
 "I don't profess to know, my dear, what he 
 is!" 
 
 "Would any other person who happened to 
 have the facts Mr. Bodewin has be as desirable 
 a witness as he ? " 
 
 " More so, perhaps. I have told you it is not 
 Bodewin we want, but his facts. He is an 
 expert, but in this case he is not asked to give an 
 expert's testimony." 
 
 " What does it imply, do you think? " 
 
 "What does what imply?" Mr. Newbold took 
 his cross-examination with a half-bored, half- 
 amused smile. He had a sharp eye, in a mild, 
 blunt-featured, smooth-shaven face. 
 
IN THE BURNT WOODS. 17 
 
 " His refusing to testify, papa," his daughter 
 patiently explained. 
 
 " It might imply, among other things, that Mr. 
 Bodewin is not in want of money at present." 
 
 "Are witnesses paid much money for their 
 testimony ? " 
 
 " Depends on the witness, and the nature of the 
 testimony, and on what you call much." 
 
 " Papa, you will have to hold me ! You look 
 so comfortable, and there is nowhere else to sit." 
 Miss Newbold pushed aside her father's cane and 
 seated herself, with a smile half deprecating, half 
 playful, on his knee. 
 
 " If I look comfortable, my looks belie me," he 
 sighed, adjusting himself to the weight of her 
 slender figure. "Why do we sit? Why don't 
 we move on ? " 
 
 " Where shall we move to, if you please ? 
 Back to the Eagle Bird, and sit on the piazza 
 with the sun in our eyes ? Look at that valley ! " 
 
 " Looks hot, don't it ? " 
 
 " Papa, how much did you offer Mr. Bode 
 win ? " 
 
 "How much what?" Mr. Newbold doggedly 
 held out. 
 
 " Poor papa ! " said his daughter, holding him 
 
18 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 by the shoulders and laughing, with her face close 
 to his. "It's no use pretending you are not 
 going to tell me. You know you are ; it's only 
 a question of time." 
 
 "Come, get up, Josephine ! You're too heavy; 
 this log needs a saddle on it." 
 
 " I never was too heavy before." 
 
 " You never before found me reduced to such a 
 painful extremity for a seat." 
 
 " How much, papa ? and I'll let you up." 
 
 " Let me up first, and then we'll see about it. 
 What do you want to know for ? " 
 
 " I want to know partly because you don't 
 want to tell me. Come, papa ! On compulsion, 
 you know. A man may say anything under 
 pressure. There's nothing yielding about you. 
 Besides, it's only mines. It hasn't anything to do 
 with your real business ! " 
 
 Mr. Newbold relieved himself by a resolute 
 push from the burden of his daughter's loveliness, 
 and got himself stiffly upon his feet. 
 
 " By George, you are heavy I " he muttered 
 reproachfully, as he limped a few steps along the 
 trail. 
 
 " Now, papa, be a good boy. Be frank with me 
 for once," Josephine pleaded, still laughing and 
 
IN THE BURNT WOODS. 19 
 
 dragging upon his arm with her hands locked 
 within it. " You need never hope to look upon 
 the Eagle Bird again unless you tell me how 
 much money you offered Mr. Bodewin." 
 
 " Well, to be frank with you," said Mr. New- 
 bold, attempting to light a cigar under difficulties, 
 "I never offered Mr. Bodewin a penny. But my 
 lawyers offered him five thousand dollars, and 
 be hanged to him," he concluded, as he tossed 
 his extinguished match into the dust. Josephine 
 released his arm suddenly and confronted him in 
 sober amazement. 
 
 "Papa, I wish I had some facts 1 could 
 dispose of at that rate. Isn't that a good deal of 
 money to offer a man for just telling the truth ? " 
 
 " Would you expect a professional man to 
 spend his time in court on another man's case for 
 the witness-fees ? " Mr. Newbold asked. 
 
 " How much of his time would he have to 
 spend?" 
 
 "An hour, perhaps, actually on the stand." 
 Mr. Newbold yielded the point carelessly. 
 
 " I should not have supposed, from Mr. Bode- 
 win's appearance as he rode through the woods 
 just now, that his time was worth five thousand 
 dollars an hour." 
 
20 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " There are hours and hours of a man's time, 
 my dear. This may not be one of Bode win's 
 five-thousand-dollar hours." 
 
 " Papa, you know perfectly well there is no 
 man living who can earn five thousand dollars 
 honestly in an hour." 
 
 "Do I?" said Mr. Newbold, unconcernedly. 
 " I wish I knew by personal experience to the 
 contrary." 
 
 " Well, I am glad he did not take it. I respect 
 him for not taking it. At the same time " 
 
 "You would like to know whether he was 
 offered more by the other side to keep quiet." 
 
 They were walking now along the trail, 
 Josephine preceding her father. As he spoke and 
 laughed his easy, unmirthful laugh, she looked 
 back at him. The level sunbeams striking across 
 her eyes turned the blackness of their thick, 
 curved lashes to a reddish brown. 
 
 " Papa, do you believe that ? " 
 
 " I'm not a man of many beliefs," Mr. Newbold 
 replied, with the manner of one who is done with 
 a subject. 
 
 Josephine wished her father would speak again, 
 and rob those last words of their unpleasant sig 
 nificance, but he followed her in silence, striking 
 
IK THE BURNT WOODS. 21 
 
 off, with his aimlessly industrious cane, the 
 brittle, charred twigs that came in his way. 
 "When they were nearly opposite the tunnel, the 
 trail widened, and she walked at his side. 
 
 " Papa," she said, turning to him brightly, as if 
 to make open amends for her tacit dissatisfaction 
 with him, " why won't you take that Bird off the 
 name of your mine. Eagle Bird!" she repeated, 
 mockingly. 
 
 " We'll wait and see who the mine belongs to. 
 Mr. Harkins's taste in names may not be the same 
 as yours." 
 
 44 Well," said Josephine, " the name is definite 
 enough, if the ownership is vague." 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 
 
 AN acre of the hill-side above the tunnel had 
 been cleared of its scorched timber to make room 
 for the surface " plant " of the Eagle Bird. The 
 ground was hard arid verdureless. Each day's 
 dust, before the next day came, was swept into 
 windrows or whirled away altogether by intermit 
 tent gusts, charging up the slope from the valley. 
 The "plant" consisted of the main shaft-house 
 and a number of log-cabins, sheds, and board- 
 houses, grouped irregularly round it. The dwell 
 ing of the superintendent was distinguished by 
 its high porch, with an ornamental cornice sup 
 porting the eaves, and by the addition of shutters 
 to its windows. Some feeble vines had been 
 early baulked in an attempt to climb the loose 
 warp of strings extending from the railing of the 
 porch to a series of nails ruthlessly driven into 
 the cornice above. Two or three saddle-horses, 
 hitched to the posts which supported the gallery, 
 
 22 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 23 
 
 were swinging their heads discontentedly, and a 
 row of men stood with their backs against the 
 side of the house near the lower entrance, each 
 man with his chin elevated and his hat tilted for 
 ward over his eyes, as a defence from the rays of 
 the low sun. Sammis, the temporary superin 
 tendent of the Eagle Bird, was holding forth on 
 the subject of the lawsuit to a few friends who had 
 ridden over from the new camp at Spearfish. 
 
 As they passed this group Josephine confided 
 to her father in a little grimace her opinion of the 
 gentlemen from Spearfish. She ran up the steps 
 of the piazza, while her father remained below, 
 joining in the talk of the men. 
 
 "Say, Mr. Newbold," Sammis appealed to his 
 principal, "I been telling the boys that you 
 bought this here Eagle Bird mine of Jim Keesner, 
 and nobody but him. Is that so, or ain't it ? " 
 
 " That is so, Sammis," said Mr. Newbold. " The 
 mine was located in Keesner's name, and the 
 transfer of titles was made between him and my 
 self exclusively. Harkins's name was never men 
 tioned. I'm not a mining man, gentlemen," Mr. 
 Newbold continued, smiling upon the company at 
 large, "but I've heard of Colonel Billy Harkins. 
 He's pretty well known in Kansas City." 
 
24 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " He's sold some mines there, I guess," one of 
 the delegation from Spearfish remarked. 
 
 " More than he will ever sell there again," said 
 Mr. Newbold. -"I never would have touched the 
 property without an expert's report on it, if the 
 colonel's name had been in any way connected with 
 it. I didn't know even that he owned the Uinta." 
 
 "The boys here," said Sammis, "was remarkin' 
 it seemed kind o' keerless in you to buy a mine 
 on paper, as you might say. I told 'em you had a 
 copy of the first location notice certified to by the 
 recorder of this district." 
 
 " That ought to fix the title all right," one of 
 Spearfish men admitted; while another offered 
 the amendment, " If mining records was ever kep' 
 as they'd ought to be, and not sloshed round so 
 public like." 
 
 " That's just where I drop on it," said Sammis. 
 " That recorder must ' a ' certified to a false copy, 
 or else the record's been tampered with. There 
 isn't a man in camp that don't believe Mr. New- 
 bold owns this mine. Question is, how you goin' 
 to prove it ? Why Lord, when I first got 
 notice to quit work in the new shaft, I didn't pay 
 no more Mention to it ! I just walked into the 
 court-house one day, and asked to have a look at 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 25 
 
 the location notice of the Eagle Bird mine. And, 
 by , there they'd got it all fixed." 
 
 " I'd hunt that recorder with a shot-gun ! " one 
 of Sammis's friends remarked. 
 
 " I wouldn't waste time on him I'd hunt Jim 
 Keesner," another one said. 
 
 " Yes, there'd be more huntin' than findin', I 
 guess," said Sammis. "There's plenty of room 
 between the Rockies and the Sierries for Jim 
 Keesner to hide out. He might be guidin' parties 
 in the mountains ; he might be raiichin' it or 
 teamin' it ; he might be prospectin' round among 
 the hills somewheres, or down on the reservation ; 
 he might 'a' joined them fool Mormons. 
 
 " What's Hark' say 's gone of him ? " one of 
 the group inquired. 
 
 " Harkins ? Harkins is as innocent as the babe 
 unborn. He don't know nothin' 'bout Keesner. 
 He just p'ints to his records." 
 
 " When I first arrived in the camp," Mr. New- 
 bold interposed, " I should say as many as twenty 
 men came to me and offered to take their affidavit 
 that the Eagle Bird monuments had been moved, 
 and that the change had been made since our big 
 strike here. But come to cross-examine a little, 
 they got all mixed up in their memories. Some 
 
26 
 
 remembered one thing, and some one else contra 
 dicted it. You couldn't get a single witness who 
 would be worth anything to us out of the whole 
 lot of them. 
 
 " Course not," said Sammis. " I know them 
 monuments has been moved, but I couldn't prove 
 it to a jury. You don't want memories; you 
 want facts. The facts in this case is you 
 know, Jim," Sammis appealed with a gesture of 
 his thumb to the man who stood next him, " when 
 they first org'nized the district, Shirley Ensign, 
 he called himself, was recorder. P'lonius was the 
 name he went by. Kep' his records in an old 
 candle-box in a corner of The Gem. Then, you 
 know, just after they made their big strike up 
 here, The Gem took fire. Of course it was 
 accidental! Harkins packed the records across 
 the street into The Oasis ; but it took him a day 
 and a half to get there " 
 
 " What business had he with the records ? " 
 Mr. Newbold interrupted. 
 
 " Much as anybody," Sammis briefly explained, 
 absorbed in his statement of the situation. 
 
 " Where was the recorder ? " 
 
 " Most likely he was drunk but, as I was 
 sayin', during the time Colonel Billy had them 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 27 
 
 records he prob'ly looked them over to his advan 
 tage. Now, you see," Sammis sat down on the 
 heels of his boots and drew in the dust with a bit 
 of charred stick two parallelograms side by side, 
 with their boundary-line in common, " them 
 two claims lay this way. Harkins's workin's was 
 here, and the Eagle Bird had just made a strike 
 right there " he made two small circles with 
 the bit of stick in the opposite corners of each 
 parallelogram. " The colonel knew them two 
 holes were on the same vein. He just takes them 
 records and floats the north end of his claim right 
 bod'ly to the west'ard, and brings his side line 
 down cater corn erin' that way ; and some day 
 when there ain't anybody round, he changes his 
 stakes, and there he's got a first-class legal loca 
 tion right plumb onto your ground." Sammis 
 turned the force of his peroration upon Mr. New- 
 bold. "Oh, the colonel's always ]egal ! He's got ^' 
 his affidavit men always handy. And there's 
 another little peculiarity of his'n you want to 
 keep in mind he's uncommon lucky in his 
 juries. Now, the man that surveyed them two 
 claims for the location was John Bod'ii, and 
 problikely he's got the notes and also problikely S 
 the colonel's got him coppered." 
 
28 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " Sammis, you are a little too figurative for 
 me sometimes," Mr. Newbold mildly observed. 
 "What do you mean by coppered? " 
 
 "Bet'n he won't turn up," several voices re 
 plied, and every man of the group turned a 
 pitying eye on Mr. Newbold. 
 
 Sammis drew the sole of his boot across his 
 diagram, spat upon the smoothed dust, and so 
 rested the case according to the Eagle Bird. 
 The gentlemen from Spearfish, remarking that 
 they had " better be a-movin' on so as to git into 
 camp before dark," mounted their horses and took 
 the lower trail toward the valley. 
 
 Mr. Newbold was familiar with the Sammisian 
 theory of the case between the mines, but each 
 fresh exposition of it made him more restive, 
 especially on the point of Bodewin's obduracy. 
 
 " Sammis, did you mean to convey by that 
 figure of speech you used just now " 
 
 " That which, sir ? " 
 
 " That expression you made use of in refer 
 ence to Bodewin that Harkins has bought 
 him?" 
 
 " Well, sir, I should take Bode'n to be rayther 
 of an expensive article to buy for a man of 
 moderate means; but you can just bet your 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 29 
 
 bottom dollar the colonel's got some holt on him, 
 or he never'd V started the scheme." 
 
 " I can force him with a subpoena, if there is no 
 other way to fetch him." 
 
 44 Well, now, Mr. Newbold, I don't want to give 
 advice, but you don't want to send a sheriff 
 huntin' Bode'n if you mean to git him ! He 
 knows this country. He can find his hole and git 
 into it too quick." As Sammis became excited, 
 his tone grew more nasal and his speech more un 
 trammelled. " You can't drive him and you can't 
 buy him, in my opinion, but if you can find 
 Harkins's holt on him well, I do' know ! If 
 you did ketch him and force him onto the stand, 
 an unwillin' witness is worse than none." 
 
 Mr. Newbold and his daughter rode back to the 
 camp in the splendor of a sunset that loomed red 
 behind the skeleton pines. Josephine let her 
 horse take his own way down the wagon-track, 
 while she watched its dying changes. But she 
 lost the last tints in her preoccupation with the 
 dust and the strange meetings and passings on 
 the broad and level road by which they ap 
 proached the town. That quickening of the 
 pulse which makes itself felt in every human 
 community as day draws to a close had intensi- 
 
80 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 fied the life of the camp. The sound of its voices 
 and footsteps, the smoke of its fires, rose in the 
 still, cool air. Cradled between two ranges of 
 the mother mountains of the continent, the little 
 colony could hardly have been more inland in its 
 situation ; it had nevertheless in many respects 
 the character of a primitive seaport. It owed its 
 existence to hazardous ventures from a distance. 
 Its shops were filled, not with the fruits of its 
 soil or the labor of its hands, but with cargoes 
 that had been rocked in the four-wheeled mer 
 chantmen of the plains. Bronzed-faced, hairy- 
 throated men occupied more than their share of 
 its sidewalks, spending carelessly in a few days 
 and nights the price of months of hardship and 
 isolation. Its hopes and its capital were largely 
 bound up in the fate of adventurers into that 
 unpeopled land which has no history except the 
 records written in fire, in ice, and in water, on its 
 rocks and river-beds ; the voyagers across that 
 inland sea where the smoke of lonely camp-fires 
 goes up from wagon -roads that were once hunt 
 er's trails, and trails that were once the tracks of 
 buffalo. There were men seen at intervals of 
 many months in its streets, whom the desert and 
 the mountains called, as the sea calls the men of 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 31 
 
 the coast towns. It was a port of the wilder 
 ness. 
 
 The arrivals due that Saturday night were 
 seeking their dusty moorings. Heavily loaded 
 freighters were lurching in, every mule straining 
 in his collar, every trace taut and quivering. 
 Express-wagons of lighter tonnage took the dust 
 of the freighters, until the width of the road gave 
 their square-trotting draught-horses a chance to 
 swing out and pass. In and out among the craft 
 of heavier burden, shuffled the small, tough 
 bronchos. Their riders were for the most part 
 light built, like their horses, with a bearing at 
 once alert and impassive. They were young 
 men, notwithstanding a prevailing look of care 
 and stolid endurance, due in some cases, possibly, 
 to the dust-laden hollows under the sun-wearied 
 eyes, and to that haggardness of aspect which 
 goes with a beard of a week's growth, a flannel 
 shirt loosely buttoned about a sunburned throat, 
 and a temporary estrangement from soap and 
 water. These were the doughty privateersmen, 
 returning with a convoy of pack-animals from the 
 valley of the Gunnison or the Clearwater, or the 
 tragic hunting-grounds of the Indian Reserva 
 tion. 
 
32 
 
 Taking the footpath way, beside his loaded 
 donkey trudged the humble " grub-stake," or 
 the haggard-eyed charcoal-burner from his smok 
 ing camp in the nearest timber, while far up on 
 the mountain, distinct in the reflected glow of 
 sunset, a puff of white dust appeared from 
 moment to moment, following the curves of the 
 road, where the passenger coach was making its 
 best speed, with brakes hard down, on the home- 
 grade from the summit of the pass. 
 
 Mr. Newbold and his daughter entered the 
 town by a side street, and wheeled their horses, 
 at a sharp trot, into the main avenue, a few 
 blocks above the Wiltsie House. The avenue 
 was straight and wide, as befits the avenue of 
 the hopeful future ; but the houses were the 
 houses of the uncertain present. They were 
 seldom more than two stories in height, mis 
 cellaneous in character, homogeneous in ugliness, 
 crude in newness of paint or rawness of boards 
 without paint. There were frequent breaks in 
 the perspective of their roofs, where a vacant lot 
 awaited its tenant, or the tenant awaited his 
 house. There were tents doing duty for houses; 
 there were skeleton structures hastily clothing 
 themselves with bricks and mortar that meantime 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 33 
 
 impeded the sidewalk. One-half of the street was 
 torn up for the laying of gas-pipes, and crossings 
 were occasionally blockaded by the bulk of a 
 house on rollers, which night had overtaken in 
 its snail-like progress. The passing crowd was a 
 crowd distinguished by a predominance of boots 
 and hats dusty or muddy boots, and hats with 
 a look of preternatural age or of startling new 
 ness. There was a dearth of skirts ; and these, 
 when they appeared, were given a respectful, an 
 almost humorously respectful, share of the side 
 walk. The crowd went its way with none of that 
 smart unanimity of movement which characterizes 
 the up-town and down-town march of feet trained 
 to the pavement. It slouched and straggled and 
 stared, and stopped in the middle of the common 
 way, and greeted its friends, and vociferated its 
 sentiments, and exhibited its ore-specimens of 
 fabulous promise, regardless of incommoded pass 
 ers. It was invariably good-natured. 
 
 Two distinct groups were forming in the street : 
 one, small and shifting, in front of the Wiltsie 
 House, expecting the hourly arrival of the stage ; 
 and one larger, more persevering and disorderly, 
 on the corner opposite the Variety Theatre, 
 where a band of music was playing airs of a 
 
34 JOHN BODEWTN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 rather belated popularity. Spanning the street, 
 between the upper windows of the theatre and 
 the opposite roof, a tight rope was stretched 
 against the fading flush of sunset, and a Mad 
 emoiselle Cordova (whose colors were also fading, 
 but were capable of resuscitation for the evening's 
 performance) was advertised to make her debut in 
 the camp upon this rope. Here the expectant 
 evening stir reached a climax of excitement, and 
 beyond it suddenly ceased. In fact, the town 
 ceased. There was nothing more but the stage 
 on which its shabby little drama was set. Its 
 lights were lowered ; the wind of evening, of 
 coolness and vast space, drew through its lofty 
 wings. Ranging down the valley, peak beyond 
 peak, the mountains lifted their illumined heads. 
 
 "The sunset is gone!" Josephine exclaimed; 
 " but what a night oh, what a night ! Papa, 
 do look at the mountains ! " she shouted, trying to 
 catch his ear in the noise of the street. 
 
 " Never mind the mountains, look out for 
 that freighter ! " her father replied. " You can't 
 ride here as if you were on Wabash Avenue." 
 
 A little later she tried again, " Papa, where do 
 you suppose they all come from ? " 
 
 They had halted at the edge of the sidewalk, 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 35 
 
 and Josephine was gazing around her at the mov 
 ing mass of male humanity, while her father 
 dismounted with circumspection. 
 
 " Oh, they are the superfluous people from 
 everywhere." 
 
 " Why, of course ! Just like us. I never felt 
 more superfluous in my life ! " 
 
 Laughing as she leaned from her saddle, with 
 her hands on her father's shoulders, she dropped 
 lightly to the ground, and the door inscribed 
 " Ladies' Entrance Wiltsie House " closed behind 
 her. 
 
 The Newbolds usually dined late, on a theory 
 that by so doing they escaped the greatest crowd, 
 in the only dining-room of the hotel. Josephine 
 had changed her dress and was moving about in 
 the solitude of the ladies' parlor, looking at the 
 desolate chromos on its walls, and sitting in 
 unquiet attitudes on its blue-velvet chairs, when 
 her father entered. He was looking fatigued, and 
 with the tired expression the lines of his face 
 lapsed into a heaviness which emphasized the 
 contrast between father and daughter as they 
 stood opposite each other. Mr. Newbold's pro 
 portions were conspicuously inelegant, while Jose 
 phine stood lightly on her feet, her small dark 
 
36 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 head nearly as high as her father's. Her low 
 browed, round-cheeked face, with its long sweep 
 of eyebrow, short, full mouth, and rich coloring, 
 would have been excessively pretty, wanting its 
 candid brightness of expression and the dark eyes 
 which gave it dignity. With these, it was quite 
 enough to have convinced Bode win of the fatuity 
 of local prejudices where girls are concerned. 
 
 Mr. Newbold had entered the room preoccupied 
 with an idea which had struck him as a good one 
 from several points of view. 
 
 " Josephine," he began, in pursuance of this idea, 
 " wouldn't it rather amuse you to meet Bodewin ? " 
 
 Josephine stared at him. 
 
 " He is one of the types of the place, you 
 know," he continued, resolutely. " Not the red- 
 flannel shirt and revolver style, but something a 
 little more subtle, as you would say. A kind of 
 1 a Yankee lotus-eater." 
 
 Josephine was struck by a somewhat awkward 
 deliberation in her father's manners. The word 
 Yankee coming from him also displeased her in a 
 way she felt to be childish. Her mother and her 
 mother's people had been Yankees, so called. As 
 she remained silent, her father added at ran 
 dom : 
 
A COMMUNITY OF SPECIALISTS. 37 
 
 " You are a student of human nature, you 
 know." 
 
 " I, papa ? " Josephine laughed uncomfortably. 
 " What put that into your head ? All the human 
 nature I ever tried to study was my own, which is 
 certainly human. I am not looking for types ; I 
 shouldn't know one if I saw it. If you mean, 
 would I like you to introduce Mr. Bodewin to me, 
 no, papa, thank you, decidedly I would not. I 
 hate to make acquaintances in that premeditated 
 way." 
 
 " Well, well ! It's hardly likely you would 
 know Bodewin I only thought he might help 
 3 r ou to pass the time while we are here, and the 
 chance of talking with a nice, bright girl in a 
 place like this would be a boon to any fellow." 
 
 " He has not shown himself very eager for the 
 chance," said Josephine. " Besides, papa, if he is 
 going to be so disagreeable about your lawsuit, I 
 don't know why we should be civil to him." 
 
 Mr. Newbold reflected that a little timely 
 civility might go far to overcome Bode win's dis- 
 agreeableness, but he wisely kept this reflection 
 to himself. Josephine was unsophisticated, as all 
 men, however wise in their generation, like their 
 women to be. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER. 
 
 "WHEN will you come up?" Mr. Craig asked 
 of Mr. Newbold the next afternoon, as his client 
 was leaving the office of Joseph Craig, counsel for 
 the Eagle Bird against Lee and Harkins. " We 
 want you to come before the Government Survey 
 moves into its new quarters. The party are in 
 camp now in the woods back of our cabin. There 
 is no better company this side of the range than 
 you'll get round their camp-fire of an evening. 
 No ceremony pot of beans or oatmeal or what 
 not, boiling on the coals for to-morrow's breakfast 
 boys in their buckskins not one of them but 
 your daughter might dance with, or dine with, 
 or gallop across country with, as she happened to 
 find them. They're liable to turn up almost 
 anywhere, those fellows at the swell clubs 
 in New York or London, or the President's 
 receptions, or digging their way up some moun 
 tain-peak above snow-line." 
 
 38 
 
MRS. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER. 39 
 
 " I hope I shall never meet any of them there ! " 
 Mr. Newbold interjected. 
 
 "No," laughed Mr. Craig, "it isn't likely you 
 will. I never met any of them there myself. 
 Well, when will you come ? Thursday ? Thurs 
 day then. We are only camping within four 
 walls ourselves. We can't ask you to dine." 
 
 "We can hardly be said to dine at the Wiltsie 
 House." 
 
 " No, it's a good time to take you, after a fort 
 night at the Wiltsie. You must have forgotten 
 how the flesh-pots tasted. Tell Miss Newbold to 
 put on a pair of stout boots, and after dinner we 
 will go over to the Camp of the Geologists and 
 get Hillbury talking, if we can." 
 
 "My daughter will be delighted. She gets 
 restless these moonlight nights, because she 
 cannot be out-of-doors. It is too bad to be shut 
 up in a third-rate hotel with such a country as 
 this around us. /don't know where to take her. 
 I'm half tempted sometimes to give the young 
 fellows round here a chance to amuse her. I'm 
 not much of a rider, or much of a climber, myself. 
 She wants to get up on top some of those peaks, 
 and she wants to go down in a mine." 
 
 " Of course she does ; and you can't find any 
 
40 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 - better fellows to trust her with than Hillbury's 
 crowd. If she wants a chaperon, my wife will go 
 along with her any time you like to get up' a 
 party." 
 
 " It's very kind of you, Craig, I'm sure." Mr. 
 Newbold had buttoned his coat and taken up his 
 hat and cane. He stood, tapping the one against 
 the other, while Mr. Craig spoke to a clerk who 
 had stepped to the door of his private office. 
 " How about Bodewin ? " he said, as the door 
 closed and Mr. Craig turned back to his desk. 
 
 " Bodewin ? There's nothing new about Bode 
 win that I know of." 
 
 " Have we got to give him up ? " 
 
 " Not at all. We can't give him up. There's 
 the subpoena, when we're ready for it." 
 
 "I don't like that. I don't think we'll gain 
 anything by it. Now, Sammis has an idea in his 
 head once in a while. He says it's no use to try 
 the subpoena on Bodewin. He'd manage to leak 
 out; or, as he puts it, an unwilling witness is 
 worse than none." 
 
 " This is not a question of verbal testimony," 
 Mr. Craig rejoined. "Bodewin can be required 
 to produce certain papers which he is pretty well 
 understood to have had in his possession when 
 
41 
 
 Harkins first made his claim, and it was known 
 you would resist it. Now, if he has the papers, 
 that is all we want. If he has destroyed them 
 since the dispute about the records came up, he 
 must have had some reason for doing so. He can 
 be required to give it. Don't you see ? His un 
 willingness is a strong point in our favor the 
 more obvious the unwillingness, the stronger the 
 point. He does not intend to appear against 
 Harkins that I'm tolerably sure of. Money 
 won't fetch him. There is some personal hitch." 
 
 " I'd like to know what it is." 
 
 " So would I. But I don't think we ever will 
 know from Bodewin." 
 
 " Has Bodewin any ' pard,' as you say out here, 
 or any intimate friend in the camp ? " 
 
 "I don't think he has any intimate friends here, i, 
 except Hillbury of the Survey. He was on the 
 Survey himself, under Wheeler. As for a 4 pard,' 
 Bodewin is a gentlemen, as you say back there." 
 
 "What I am getting at," said Mr. Newbold, 
 "is whether Bodewin is among his friends here, 
 where he would be likely to talk about his affairs 
 now and then when he felt communicative, or 
 whether he is shut up in himself. According to 
 my small experience of men, I believe that almost 
 
42 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 every man, even the most reticent, once in a 
 while, perhaps, will talk to some one. The shyer 
 he is and the longer he has been locked up, the 
 more likely he is to open out to the right one, if 
 the right one happens to come along at the right 
 time. Now, with Bodewin, if we could get at 
 his scruple, whatever it is, it would be a great 
 point gained. I don't like this subpoena. I don't 
 like it at all with a man like him. You don't 
 know what turn he might take. It's too much like 
 a Jack-in-the-box you open the box, and the thing 
 is out in spite of you. The right way is to get at 
 his reasons, whatever they are, and meet them 
 talk him out of them. But you can't argue with a 
 man when you don't know your premises." 
 
 " Mr. Newbold, I don't know what influence you 
 may have with Bodewin, but I can't flatter my 
 self, from what I know of him, that I'm the right 
 one to induce him to unburden himself." 
 
 " Nor I either, my dear sir. Now, between us 
 both, I shouldn't wonder if it were a 'case for a 
 woman." 
 
 "D a woman !" Mr. Craig now turned 
 
 from his desk and gave his fullest attention to his 
 client's rambling remarks. "What woman do 
 you propose to introduce into the case ? " 
 
MES. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER. 43 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Newbold, disconcertedly, "I 
 haven't any in view at this moment. But I sup 
 pose Bodewin is not the kind of man to be influ 
 enced by a woman who wasn't a well a 
 lady." 
 
 " Oh ! If it is a case for a lady's influence, you 
 will hardly need any legal adviser." 
 
 Mr. Craig turned back to his desk and began 
 to pull about his papers. 
 
 " My dear Craig, hold on ! You're taking 
 me too seriously altogether, I assure you. It is 
 of no consequence only a suggestion. I hate 
 to leave the camp with the thing in the shape it's 
 in now." 
 
 "Leave the thing to me, Mr. Newbold, and 
 leave the woman out of it if you please. I think 
 myself, you'd much better stay and see it through. 
 You'll be better satisfied, you know." 
 
 " I dare say you are right." 
 
 " I wish you would stay until after the trial. 
 You'll see some fun. Mining law is peculiar," 
 Mr. Craig called after his client. He had not 
 taken the trouble to see him to the door. 
 
 Mr Newbold had been advised, in his choice of 
 counsel, to employ a man of local knowledge and 
 reputation rather than one more widely known in 
 
44 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 the profession. Each State, each mining district 
 even, had its own mining laws, and few busy 
 lawyers, however well read, could keep informed 
 of all these various "local regulations and cus 
 toms." 
 
 Mr. Craig was a small man, too nervous and 
 irritable for a lawyer, with a large head, a com 
 plexion of reddish fairness, and a peremptory, 
 careless manner, cultivated in provincial West 
 ern circles. He had been educated at an Indiana 
 college, and going East soon afterwards, on the 
 usual pilgrimage which the complacent young 
 West makes, at least once in its life, to the old, 
 sad, unprosperous homes of its conservative East 
 ern relatives, critical even in their decline, 
 had fallen in love with a second or third cousin, 
 a surprisingly lively young person for the only 
 girl left in a large, elderly, and peculiar family 
 connection. 
 
 It still remained a wholesome mystery to him 
 how he had managed to persuade this young 
 woman to go West with him. She had seemed 
 to him the cleverest girl he had ever met, and 
 the most insensible to masculine attractions. She 
 had laughed at his little egotisms and provincial 
 isms, and at a later stage of their acquaintance 
 
MRS. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER. 45 
 
 had fiercely maintained the superiority of the 
 most commonplace Eastern existence over the \ , 
 most triumphant career life could offer west of j 
 the Little Miami. And yet she had married him. 
 Her friends considered that she had thrown her 
 self away, both as to the man and his circumstan 
 ces ; for even in the most figurative sense Joseph 
 Craig could hardly be regarded as a type of that 
 vast material prosperity of the West his Eastern 
 relatives found, in theory, so revolting. Mrs. 
 Craig had expected that she would make a great 
 change in her husband, if not in her husband's 
 circumstances. She would make him wear darker 
 clothes and smaller hats, and reform him of a 
 habit of leaning on the hind legs of his chair, and 
 of passing his hand over his hair in the pauses of 
 conversation. She would make him see the logic 
 of free trade, and persuade him to read Emerson V 
 and Herbert Spencer instead of so many news- *'' 
 papers. She would insist upon less prominence 
 in his final r's. They had now been married nine 
 years, but no change as yet was evident in Craig, 
 except that he was growing stout and slightly 
 bald. Mrs. Craig's complexion had lost its deli 
 cate New England bloom in the strong Western 
 suns and winds; she had grown thin instead of 
 
46 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 stout, and her soft frail light locks were scarcely 
 abundant enough to make the small low knot 
 which was fashion's modest demand at that time. 
 But she met all changes for the worse in her 
 appearance with rather a defiant honesty, secure 
 in the conviction that "Joe " liked her just as she 
 was. She was as lively and inconsistent as ever, 
 as vociferously opposed to her husband in theory, 
 and as vehemently his partisan in practice. She 
 was restless, merry, moody, wearing herself out 
 over her work or her play ; overestimating or un 
 derestimating her friends and her own circumstan 
 ces; enthusiastic over her children's promise or 
 in despair over their performance. Mr. Craig had 
 that immense respect for his profession that an 
 unknown Western lawyer with a decidedly unlegal 
 turn of mind might be expected to have. This 
 was one of his idiosyncrasies which his wife had 
 never laughed at him about. Clever and keen 
 as she was, she had never yet seen her husband 
 quite as others saw him, and happily took as 
 serious a view of him professionally as he did 
 of himself. 
 
 Mr. Craig was absolutely, almost vindictively, 
 honest. He had many, in fact most, of the para 
 mount virtues, but he was one of those men who 
 
MRS. CRAIG'S LITTLE DINNER. 47 
 
 are eiected to be poor, to be unpopular, and to be 
 held at less than their actual worth. 
 
 The Craig household, like many another on the 
 frontier, was conducted on the theory of " catas- 
 trophism " rather than that of " uniform law." The 
 dinner to the Newbolds happened to occur on one 
 of its days of "convulsive upheaval." Mrs. Craig's 
 butcher had betrayed her, her greengrocer had 
 "gone back on her," her cook had stabbed her 
 to the heart's core of her housewifery pride. 
 Finally, her eldest boy, a three-year-old, had 
 tumbled into the hydraulic ditch which flowed 
 past the house, at a temperature of melted 
 snow, had been dragged, dripping and gasping, 
 into the house, about twenty minutes before 
 the dinner-hour, stripped of his clothes, hastily 
 scolded, and rubbed down with brandy and 
 rough towels in front of a scorching fire in the 
 dining, reception, and only living room of the 
 house, and tucked into his bed as the guests ar 
 rived at the door. The maid-of-all-work opened 
 the door, while Mrs. Craig swept up the towels in 
 one arm, and retreated to her bedroom, holding 
 the boy's wet garments at arm's length. With 
 scarlet cheeks, a rather dubious smile of welcome, 
 and with an irrepressible odor of brandy per- 
 
48 
 
 vading her garments, she appeared before her 
 guests a moment later, shutting out a burst of in 
 fant wrath and dolor, as she closed the door be 
 hind her. The soft-hearted Irish servant, who 
 was putting the last touches to the table, was so 
 distracted by these sounds that she could hardly 
 be induced to remember she had other duties 
 besides those of consolation. The nurse had 
 been sent to the camp to inquire into the non- 
 appearance of the fruit which had been ordered 
 for dessert. 
 
 It was an inauspicious beginning to an ex 
 tremely bad little dinner. Fitful bursts of gayety 
 from the hostess alternated with sudden silences, 
 during which her eyes wandered anxiously towards 
 her husband's face. Coffee was served at last, 
 and the company turned its chairs from the table 
 to the fire. Mr. Craig went in search of a box of 
 cigars, and the evening cleared up with a promise 
 of cheerfulness if not of brilliancy. 
 
 There was still the visit to Mr. Hillbury's camp 
 to redeem the failure of the dinner. Mrs. Craig 
 perhaps overvalued the picturesque in the absence 
 of the comfortable, but she had been moderately 
 comfortable all her life, and had only since her 
 marriage begun to be even remotely picturesque. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE CAMP-FIRE. 
 
 THE Craig cabin stood on a narrow peninsula 
 of roughly cleared ground, with the pine woods 
 behind it. It was characteristic of mining no 
 menclature that the stream of pure swift-running 
 water, which formed this peninsula, taken from 
 the infant Arkansas, should be called a " ditch." 
 The path which ran beside it was called, in the 
 same concise nomenclature, the " ditch walk." It 
 was a favorite promenade of the camp. It com 
 manded a view of the sunset behind the pine 
 woods, of the camp in the gulch, and of the 
 mountains which rose beyond, taking upon their 
 worn, sphinx-like faces the sun's descending glow. 
 Mrs. Craig had walked off more than one impera 
 tive fit of weeping there nervous weeping, 
 without assignable cause, unless it might be a 
 dumb awe and terror of her surroundings, as if 
 several layers of the earth's crust had been torn 
 away, and she, with a modern woman's oversensi- 
 
 49 
 
50 
 
 tiveness and complicated needs, had been dropped 
 upon one of the primeval strata, with huge dumb 
 forms of unknown life around her. The moun 
 tains themselves had, to her morbid fancy, an op 
 pressive individuality. They intruded upon her, 
 in the midst of her small, subtle joys and pains of 
 to-day, with their heart-breaking stolidity and 
 their immense past. They took the meaning out 
 of her efforts, and made them seem of no avail. 
 When she tried to express these fancies to her 
 husband, he received them into his masculine con 
 sciousness as a phase of her own idiosyncrasy, 
 in spite of her assurance that every other woman 
 in the camp probably had the same. That even 
 ing, as she kept the path by Josephine in the 
 moonlight, she had no fancies that were not 
 cheerful. Perhaps it came of the contact with a 
 younger, stronger, and simpler woman's nature. 
 Perhaps she was healthfully tired from her 
 domestic difficulties, and enjoying that slumber of 
 nerves which comes with honest bodily fatigue. 
 The mountains looked to her only solemn and 
 beautiful, and were simply a noble range of peaks 
 guarding a valley filled with moonlit haze. 
 The moon, peering behind the pine trunks, had 
 no expression beyond that of the full moon, half 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 51 
 
 an hour risen. Under her sense of the beauty 
 around her was the happy thought of a wife who 
 sees a remarkable proof of her husband's goodness 
 in his least and most natural act. There was not 
 another man in the world, she felt sure, who 
 would not have been furious over such a gro 
 tesque failure as her dinner had been. She hur 
 ried Josephine gayly along, and now they stopped 
 on the edge of the wood to wait for the men, who 
 had followed more slowly. A sound of wind 
 came from the gulch, distant at first, creeping 
 from tree to tree, making a sudden hurry and 
 shivering rush in the trees above their heads, and 
 stealing away again down the dim slope towards 
 the valley. 
 
 " Yes, that is the camp," she said, in reply to a 
 question from Josephine. " Take care of those 
 pine-stubs you cannot see them with the 
 light in your eyes ; won't you take hold of my 
 hand?" 
 
 "Won't you take hold of mine?" laughed 
 Josephine. " I am ever so much taller than you." 
 
 "Yes, but I know the ground. I walk here 
 hours and hours by myself. There is no one in 
 camp all day except the cook, who is generally 
 asleep in one of the wagons ; but the tents, and 
 
52 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 the mules stamping and munching, make it seem 
 
 less lonely in the woods. That is Mr. Hillbury 
 
 the dark head against the tent-curtain; he is 
 
 the chief of this party, you know. You must 
 
 1 notice his buckskins. They are Indian-tanned, 
 
 made by a London tailor. We have to amuse 
 
 ourselves with these little contrasts they are 
 
 the spice of life out here." 
 
 Mr. Hillbury, hearing the footsteps and voices 
 approaching, came out to meet his guests, saying, 
 "Who are these in bright array?" He looked 
 extremely well in his suit of buckskin, which was 
 of a light-gray color, toned by use, and set off his 
 dark complexion as if chosen for that purpose 
 alone. There w^,s the usual indistinct mention of 
 names as the group of young men around the fire 
 rose to their feet. The camp lamented its 
 deficiencies in the matter of seats. There was 
 but one camp-stool, which, both ladies declining, 
 was bestowed by acclamation on Mr. Newbold. 
 " I'm the oldest and heaviest," he declared, and 
 accepted it on that basis. The other seats were 
 sections of pine logs witl^boards nailed across the 
 top. Mrs. Craig, seeing Josephine balancing her 
 self on one of these inverted pedestals, called to 
 her to come and share with her a camp-blanket 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 53 
 
 spread on the ground. A man reclining on one 
 elbow near them, with his feet to the fire and his 
 face in deep shadow, gathered himself into a 
 sitting posture and gave them good-evening. 
 
 " Good-evening, Mr. Bodewin ; were you here 
 when we came ? " asked Mrs. Craig, leaning for 
 ward and speaking across Josephine's lap. 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. Craig. I got up and made my bow 
 with the rest, but the fire was between us." 
 
 "I did not see you," said Mrs. Craig "Miss 
 Newbold, this is Mr. Bodewin." 
 
 Bodewin moved nearer, first knocking the hot 
 ashes out of a brier-wood pipe and thrusting it, 
 bowl downward, into a breast-pocket of his coat. 
 " Poor Mr. Bodewin ! " said Mrs. Craig, noting 
 the action sympathetically. "As the wife of a 
 smoker I can feel for you. You had found such a 
 nice place to finish your pipe in silence and in 
 peace ; now we have interrupted your pipe and 
 broken your silence." 
 
 " There is always something to be thankful for, 
 Mrs. Craig," Bodewin replied. " You might have 
 interrupted the silence and broken the pipe." 
 
 Josephine was listening less to Bodewin's 
 words than to his voice, low-pitched and rather 
 languid, with an accent that was negligently 
 
54 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 pure. His face she could not see without turning, 
 too evidently, to look at him. 
 
 Perceiving that she had a neighbor on her 
 right, Mrs. Craig began talking to him, and the 
 group thus divided itself. 
 
 " How you must enjoy this life ! " said Jose 
 phine, filling the pause with the first words she 
 could think of. 
 
 Before answering, Bodewin deliberately shifted 
 his position so that it commanded a view of her 
 face, one-half of its beauty revealed in the fire 
 light, the other suggested in shadow. 
 
 " Do you mean the life of the Survey?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " It is a good life, no doubt, but it is not 
 mine." 
 
 " I thought you were of this party." 
 
 Bodewin fancied that he had lost a degree of 
 her interest by this admission. He could see her 
 bright eyes exploring the circle of dimly seen 
 faces around the camp-fire, and doubted not she 
 was already idealizing their owners in true girl- 
 fashion, and imparting to the life they led all the 
 picturesqueness she found in its accidental sur 
 roundings. 
 
THE CAMP-FIKB. 55 
 
 "No," he repeated, with his lazy intonation, "I 
 am not a mining geologist, nor a physical geolo 
 gist, nor a geological physicist, nor even a super 
 numerary on board wages." 
 
 " That is what I should like to be that last." 
 
 " Why, if you please ? " 
 
 "It must be so easy to earn board wages 
 especially " 
 
 " When the board is rather bad ? " 
 
 "They are not wildly luxurious, are they?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 " No ; the pursuit of science under government 
 is not a luxurious calling. However, it is but fair 
 to the government to say that this is but a 
 temporary arrangement. The Survey goes under 
 cover next week, and I dare say they will have a 
 few chairs." 
 
 " Mr. Bode win, haven't you some capital letters 
 after your name ? " 
 
 " After my name, Miss Newbold ? When had 
 my name the honor to be seen by you ? " 
 
 "I think it was about two weeks ago in a 
 letter to you from my father," she hesitated, con 
 scious of a somewhat awkward reason for the 
 question she had asked " and the letters were 
 M. E." 
 
56 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "I believe I am entitled to C. E. after my 
 name, but the M. E. must have been a friendly 
 flight of imagination on your father's part." 
 
 " Are you not a mining expert ? " 
 
 " I have been so called. But I believe there is 
 no such title in the back of the dictionary." 
 
 "Who is talking about dictionaries by the light 
 of a camp-fire ? " Mrs. Craig exclaimed, adding 
 her profuse treble to the duet. " Are you begin 
 ning at the fountain-head of conversation in the 
 English language.? If Miss Newbold were a Bos 
 ton girl I should be sure she had a dictionary - 
 a German dictionary in her trunk, even if it 
 crowded out her best bonnet." 
 
 " I'm sure there's no best bonnet in my trunk," 
 said Josephine. " Perhaps I ought to be ashamed 
 to say I brought but two books with me, and 
 those I can read without the aid of a dictionary 
 even an English one." 
 
 Mrs. Craig thought the contents of a traveller's 
 trunk were next to a biography of its owner. 
 "It represents his necessities, the things he can 
 not leave behind. If we knew those two books 
 Miss Newbold chooses out of all those she leaves 
 at home, we should know Miss Newbold." 
 
 " Suppose she makes a good choice but doesn't 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 57 
 
 read the books after she has brought them?" Jose 
 phine said. 
 
 " Then we should know her aspirations. They 
 are as much a part of us as our necessities, 
 surely." 
 
 " The part a biographer usually leaves out," 
 Bodewin said. " How about the traveller who 
 hasn't necessities enough to fill a trunk? How 
 would you write his biography, Mrs. Craig ? " 
 
 "Oh, a man who has no trunk cannot expect 
 to have a biography. Practically, he doesn't 
 exist." 
 
 Following the silence Mrs. Craig's peremptory 
 little speech had made, Josephine asked : 
 
 " Will you tell me, Mr. Bodewin, what a min 
 ing expert is, granting that M. E. doesn't stand 
 for him, arid that he isn't in the back of the dic 
 tionary ? " 
 
 " He is, usually, a gentleman who asks a good 
 deal of money to tell you how little he knows, or 
 perhaps, I might add, how much less some other 
 man knows." 
 
 " That is a rather unsatisfactory description." 
 
 " A mining expert is frequently a. rather unsat 
 isfactory person. But there is a difference in 
 experts, as in other people, and perhaps it is but 
 
58 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 fair to remember that in forming their conclu 
 sions they have to deal with Nature in some of her 
 most unaccountable and fantastic moods. The 
 experience gained in examining ninety-nine differ 
 ent formations may be of no use in the one-hun 
 dredth. It is a business no man can say he has 
 learned absolutely." 
 
 " Then why do they charge so much for knowl 
 edge which is not knowledge ? Is it because of 
 the risk to their reputations in saying a thing is 
 true, while they really take the chance of its 
 being otherwise ? " 
 
 " Hardly that, I should say," said Bode win, a 
 little bored by the effort to give conscientious an 
 swers to questions that did not fit his mood, but 
 willing to humor a pretty girl's thirst for informa 
 tion. " An honest expert charges for the respon 
 sibility he takes in giving such opinions as he is 
 able to form from his experience and study. If 
 the responsibility is great he charges accord- 
 ingly." 
 
 Josephine was mentally referring Bodewin's 
 words to her father's case, a case where facts 
 alone were called for, not experience or responsi 
 bility or study ; and the five thousand dollars her 
 father had offered, and Bode win had refused, 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 59 
 
 would suggest, in spite of herself, a very ugly 
 word. 
 
 Mr. Hillbury, from the other side of the fire, 
 leaned forward and threw on it another log. The 
 wind veered and carried the smoke of the aug 
 mented flame into their faces. They scrambled, 
 laughing, to their feet, and retreated, Bodewin 
 dragging the blanket after him. He spread it 
 down again on the windward side of the fire, but 
 Josephine did not seem disposed to resume her 
 seat. 
 
 They were hovering about in that fascinating ~ 
 borderland between firelight and moonlight. 
 The moon had risen high enough to fill the thin 
 woods with its light ; but it was a pale, suffused 
 radiance by contrast with the red fire-glow. The 
 wind in the tree-tops over their heads, like a cir 
 cle of unseen whisperers, closed around the 
 lightly joined thread of their talk. 
 
 "Do people ever get used to this?" Josephine 
 asked. 
 
 " I am afraid they do. But they enjoy it over 
 again, as I do to-night, seeing your fresh eyes 
 take it all in f<5r the first time." 
 
 "How do you know that I like it? I have not 
 said so, have I ? " 
 
60 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " I can see that you do." 
 
 " I do, I do ! " she said, in her full, cordial 
 tones. " But not all of it." 
 
 "No ; there is too much of it to be all good." 
 After a pause he asked : " Your father is making 
 a longer stay in the camp than he intended, is he 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes; we were to have gone this week. He 
 will wait now until after the trial." 
 
 "I hope he will gain his suit," Bodewin said 
 civilly. 
 
 "Do you?" came involuntarily from Josephine. 
 
 "Why are you surprised, Miss Newbold, to 
 find my sympathies on the side of justice ? " 
 
 "I did not know you thought that was our 
 side," Josephine replied coldly. 
 
 " I do think so." 
 
 " Then if you care about justice, why don't you 
 go into court and say so ? " 
 
 Josephine looked at him, hardly less astonished 
 than he at her own words. It was undeniably 
 careless of Bodewin to have assumed that Miss 
 Newbold knew nothing of his connection with 
 her father's lawsuit. And Josephine, under the 
 pressure of her own misgivings, had allowed her 
 self to be goaded by his cool allusion into an 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 61 
 
 extraordinary liberty. So she instantly felt it to 
 be, and so she knew that he also regarded it. He 
 looked at her keenly and gravely. 
 
 " You must not answer that question," she said. 
 " I had no right to ask it." 
 
 "Perhaps you had not," he assented. "You 
 will pardon me if I do not answer it." 
 
 "You will only humiliate me if you do." 
 
 Neither found it easy to go on talking as they 
 had talked before. By a common impulse they 
 moved back towards the camp, and when they 
 rejoined the circle around the fire, Josephine 
 contrived that her seat should be as far away as 
 possible from Bodewin. Her evening was spoiled 
 and more than that. She did not ask herself 
 what more, but miserably she felt what a fire is 
 the tongue that is not disciplined. It had not 
 occurred to her before whether she was likely or 
 not to meet Bodewin again, but now she found 
 herself earnestly hoping that she might. She 
 longed to retrieve herself, for the sake of her 
 own self-respect. Mr. Hillbury was telling a 
 story in his low, pleasant tones and matter-of-fact 
 manner that heightened the effect of his climaxes. 
 She tried to fix her attention upon it, and sat 
 with a strained half-smile on her face and her 
 
62 JOHN BODE WIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 eyes on the speaker, never looking at or speaking 
 to Bode win again, except to say good-evening to 
 him in her quietest manner when the company 
 broke up. 
 
 Bodewin lingered after the other guests had 
 gone, and smoked another pipe with Hillbury. 
 The latter remarked upon Miss Newbold's beauty. 
 It was too. obvious to call for discussion, though 
 Hillbury invited one by saying that she was too 
 unconscious to be thoroughly graceful, and that to 
 him she seemed like a preposterously handsome 
 boy. 
 
 " Oh, come ! " said Bodewin. " If she were 
 coqttette with that face and figure, where should 
 we be ? Heaven is merciful, after all ! " 
 
 When the pipe was finished Bodewin took his 
 way along the ditch walk alone. The Craig 
 cabin was dark as he passed it. He stopped on 
 the foot-bridge and leaned upon the rail, watching 
 the current slide under the shadow of the bridge 
 and out again into the light. A reflection of the 
 moon, now high overhead, floated in the black 
 water of the ditch. It wavered and widened and 
 shrunk, as the water shifted its levels under the 
 golden gleam. It struck Bodewin as a rather 
 dreary thing that he should have been so startled 
 
THE CAMP-FIRE. 63 
 
 by a girl's impulsive question. It showed how 
 seldom girls had taken the trouble to ask him 
 questions, even uncomplimentary ones, about him 
 self. "Well, it wasn't so disagreeable for a first 
 experience of the kind. Its novelty was not its 
 only charm. He half wished, now that it was too 
 late, that he had tried to answer her question, 
 and so admitted in some sort her right to ask it. 
 It might have ended in a rather piquant flirtation 
 on high moral grounds, since they were to be so 
 much longer together in the camp ; but now 
 there was small likelihood of any concession on 
 her part. She had without doubt the true, 
 woman's art to punish a man for her own offence 
 against him. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN OFFSET TO THE DINNEK. 
 
 Miss NEWBOLD'S opportunity to retrieve herself 
 came, not many days later, through the innocent 
 machinations of Mrs. Craig. Mrs. Craig also 
 wished to retrieve herself. She had given the 
 Newbolds a bad dinner. Atonement was out of 
 the question where Mr. Newbold was concerned, 
 unless it might be through making Mr. Newbold's 
 daughter happy. Her head had not touched her 
 pillow, the night after the dinner, before it began 
 comparing rides and walks and excursions in 
 various directions, with a view to Miss Newbold's 
 amusement. Chance, after all, decided her choice. 
 Mr. Hillbury offered a professional errand of his 
 own as an excuse for a ride half-way to the top of 
 one of the famed peaks of the neighboring range. 
 A party was quickly made up. Mr. Newbold at 
 the outset declined to attempt a twenty-mile ride 
 on horseback including a good deal of mountain 
 work; but he was obviously pleased with the 
 
 64 
 
AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER. 65 
 
 plan, for his daughter's sake. Bodewin was in 
 vited, Mrs. Craig informing him that he was ex 
 pected to supply those minor passages without 
 which a pleasure party, like dance music, is flat. 
 
 "We are all monotonously major, every one of 
 us, Mr. Hillbury, Miss Newbold, Joe, and my 
 self. You must come along and change the key." 
 
 The riders made an early start from the Wiltsie 
 House. Mr. Newbold stood on the curbstone and 
 watched them out of sight, Josephine taking the 
 lead, with Mr. Craig on her right and Hillbury on 
 her left, followed by Mrs. Craig with Bodewin be 
 side her, on his bald-faced bay. Half a mile beyond 
 the camp they left the stage-road for one of the 
 many stony trails which climbed the sides of the 
 gulch, branching in various directions towards as 
 many different mines. Always ascending north 
 ward, they crossed the belt of burnt timber and 
 entered the dark and fragrant spruce woods, the 
 last and toughest growth on the mountain-side. 
 Here they rode singly in a green twilight chinked 
 with golden lights. The trail was barely distin 
 guishable ; the horses' hoofs fell with a soft thud 
 on the thick-sifted layers of spruce needles, or 
 struck, with a hollow ring, the trunk of a 
 fallen tree in stepping over it. No bird-calls 
 
66 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 broke the stillness; no sounds of any kind be 
 trayed the small furtive activities of forest habi 
 tants. It was late, even for the season of wild 
 flowers fed from the cold-bosomed snows of the 
 range. A few patches of the inextinguishable 
 fire-weed lighted the dim slopes ; and occasionally, 
 beside the trail, there bloomed in its weird beauty 
 a poppy-shaped flower 011 a long hair-like stem 
 with petals colored like the wings of a lunar 
 moth. 
 
 From time to time Josephine, riding ahead, 
 tried the silence shyly with her voice. It was a 
 voice with one or two exquisite notes in it beside 
 the note, ever welcome, of youth. It was like a 
 human response to the dumb litany of the forest. 
 Josephine was happy to be on horseback in a new 
 and singularly interesting, if not always beautiful, 
 region. The keen edge had passed from her 
 mortification with regard to Bodewin. She was 
 content to let him keep his impressions of her, 
 however unfortunate they might be, without any 
 effort on her part to correct them, so long as a 
 morning as perfect as this found her still in 
 tune. So healthy and so honest a girl could not 
 keep her head low because of a single slip, which 
 hurt her through her delicacy rather than her 
 
AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER. 67 
 
 conscience, and merely affected her passing rela 
 tions with a stranger. In forgiving herself, she /< 
 forgave Bodewin, and was at peace with the 
 world. Nevertheless, stranger as he was, she 
 wished, before he drifted out of her life alto 
 gether, that he could be cleared of the reproach 
 which still clung to him in her thoughts. Was 
 it through listlessness merely and vain oblivious- 
 ness that he kept silent when the truth was 
 demanded of him ? Was it likely that in the past 
 his life-threads had become entangled with those 
 of Harkins a man whom common report called 
 an unscrupulous rogue, though a merry one, and 
 generous enough with his spoils when won? 
 What could there be in common between them ? 
 Yet she constantly heard it said that Bodewin 
 would not appear against Harkins. Why not? 
 Well, let it go ! She was sure to do some one, 
 perhaps more than one, some horrible injustice in 
 her thoughts, if she let them dwell on this sub 
 ject, which had already proved a pitfall to her 
 discretion. 
 
 " Isn't she charming ? " Mrs. Craig said to 
 Bodewin. The trees parting Had allowed him to 
 keep at her side. " So extravagantly pretty, and 
 yet so simple and womanly ! Don't you think so ? " 
 
68 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " I have not tried epithets on her yet," Bode- 
 win replied. " But I dare say I could find fault 
 with yours. I should not call her extravagantly 
 pretty, and I doubt if it would be safe to rely on 
 her simplicity." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean that kind of simplicity ! She 
 is simple like an antique, like a young goddess." 
 
 "Which one do you mean ? " he said. "There 
 is the Goddess of Liberty on the Capitol. Do 
 you call her simple?" 
 
 "No, I call her decidedly ornate. There is a 
 word which just describes her if I could only 
 think of it." 
 
 " Do you mean the Goddess of Liberty ? " 
 
 " No, I mean my goddess." 
 
 " Perhaps western is the word you want." 
 
 "Western? Well, it isn't such a bad word if 
 you take it right." 
 
 " I mean it right." 
 
 " Somehow I cannot talk to you this morning, 
 Mr. Bodewin, I think you are not in your hap 
 piest vein. Are you ? " 
 
 " I have no happy veins, Mrs. Craig. They all 
 'pinched out' years ago." 
 
 " Sink a new shaft then, and prospect for more. 
 Isn't that good advice ? " 
 
AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER. 69 
 
 " If one had any new ground to sink on. The 
 really virtuous thing to do would be to overhaul 
 the old dumps and try to make 'days' wages out of 
 them." 
 
 " You'll never be so virtuous as that ! The 
 American does not live who is content with days' 
 wages merely at anything." 
 
 "It is time he was born then," said Bode-/ 
 win. 
 
 " Don't be so dismal ! It is uncomplimentary, 
 and it isn't patriotic. When you see a girl like 
 that from Kansas City, doesn't it make you feel 
 how rich the country must be in girls ? " 
 
 Bodewin laughed. "If it be not rich for 
 me " and then the trees crowding them apart, 
 he lifted his hat and dropped behind. When 
 next they met, Mrs. Craig took up the burden 
 briskly, the theme being still the same. 
 
 " She's not a Kansas City girl, you know." 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "No, she is not a Missourian. It would be 
 strange if she were, even in name. Her family 
 - that is her mother's family have no cause to 
 love them. Her mother's father was shot dead 
 on his own doorstep, if you please by a mob 
 of Missourians during the border troubles." 
 
70 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "An unpleasant little incident in the family 
 history, I should say." 
 
 " Unpleasant ! Ah, it must take a good many 
 generations for a shock like that to die out of the 
 blood ! And there was trouble enough before it 
 came to the shooting, journeys and hardships 
 and struggles and excitements. You don't ask 
 what his offence was ! " 
 
 " I suppose his offence was that he was a Free- 
 State settler." 
 
 "A brave and consistent one; yes. He was 
 one of that band of families who were turned 
 back by the cannon planted on the Missouri 
 River to prevent the steamboats from landing 
 Free-State men. They went north by way of 
 Iowa and Nebraska (a cheerful little journey), 
 and when they reached the border again, they 
 were met by government soldiers and deprived of 
 their arms as if they had been a band of convicts. 
 No one, it seems, ever thought of disarming the 
 Missourians. The grandfather Fletcher, Joseph 
 Fletcher, hence Josephine, had signed a pro 
 test against the shameless election frauds. They 
 came to his house one night and demanded to 
 search the premises for incendiary books and 
 papers. The New York 4 Tribune' would have 
 
AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER. 71 
 
 been incendiary, I suppose, in those days, or 
 Whittier's poems. He refused to let them in. 
 He told them his wife was very ill " 
 
 "Was she?" 
 
 "Of course she was, so ill that she died soon 
 afterwards. They accused him of signing the 
 protest. He did not deny it, and they then 
 politely informed him that they would not dis 
 turb his wife that night, but would trouble him 
 to go with them. They were going to tar and 
 feather him, or do something hideous to him." 
 
 " How did he know that ? " 
 
 "I suppose they told him. At all events he 
 refused to go with them. Wouldn't you have 
 refused?" 
 
 " Possibly I should." 
 
 "You know you would any man would! 
 They tried to compel him ; he resisted, and they 
 shot him. The family were desired not to pollute 
 the territory with their presence any longer. 
 Their friends the Missourians escorted them to 
 the border, the wife, two grown sons, and Miss 
 Josephine's mother, then a girl of sixteen. At 
 some little town in Ohio they buried their mother. 
 The sons remained there, and are now wealthy 
 men in Cleveland. The daughter married Mr. 
 
72 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Newbold. I cannot imagine how he ever per 
 suaded her to go back with him to Kansas, but he 
 did, after the sacking and shooting were over. 
 Josephine was born at Wyaiidot. She is just as 
 old as the Free-State Constitution." 
 
 "Did Miss Newbold tell you this story, Mrs. 
 Craig?" 
 
 " No ; oh, no ! That would not be like her, I 
 am sure. Mr. Newbold told it to Mr. Craig one 
 day when they were alone together in the office. 
 He was speaking of his wife's delicate health, and 
 the trial it was for Josephine to leave her. But 
 Mrs. Newbold, it seems, has a perfect horror of 
 the frontier; I should think she would have. 
 When she found her husband bent on this trip, 
 she insisted Josephine should bear him company ; 
 to take care of him, I suppose, if he should be ill. 
 He spoke very nicely about his wife, Mr. Craig 
 said ; but I dare say he couldn't help being a 
 little complacent over her anxiety about himself. 
 Miss Newbold has never mentioned her mother 
 to me but once. She told me that her mother 
 was born among the mountains, that she had 
 never seen them since her childhood, and often 
 dreamed of them with a homesick longing; that 
 she wanted her, Josephine, to see them and be 
 
AN OFFSET TO THE DINNER. 73 
 
 among them while she was still a girl. I think 
 that is so natural; and of course she would not 
 say it to her husband." 
 
 " Wouldn't she ? Why not ? " 
 
 "Could she talk about her dreams of the old 
 home in the East she never expected to see again, 
 to a man like Mr. Newbold ? " 
 
 " Perhaps she does not take the same view of 
 Mr. Newbold that you do. At all events, she was 
 willing at one time to exchange those dreams for a 
 reality which must have been something like him." 
 
 "Ah! that was the husband of her youth. 
 Does he look like the husband of anybody's 
 youth ? He has deteriorated. He has let himself 
 down, you may be sure of that. He has that 
 sleek, prosperous blood in him." 
 
 " You think there are no martyrs on Mr. New- 
 bold'sside?" 
 
 "I should say, judging from papa Newbold, 
 that as a family they would be distinguished by 
 good digestions and a tendency to conform when 
 ever opposition was likely to make things uncom 
 fortable. However, I can't be just to him. I 
 gave him such a horrible little dinner, and we 
 never can forgive the people we have irretrievably 
 wronged." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 
 
 THEY had now left the heavy timber behind 
 them. The firs grew more sparsely and were 
 low and crooked ; occasionally the weather-worn 
 trunk of a dead tree leaned in spectral white 
 ness against the dark ranks of its survivors. The 
 riders were close upon the line where trees cease 
 and vegetation creeps close to the ground and 
 takes a fur-like habit. Against the deep, cloud 
 less blue of the upper atmosphere rose the brown 
 and naked peaks, streaked with supernal snows. 
 The sun glowed hot upon them ; motionless 
 shadows denned every angle and chasm. Clear, 
 solid masses of shadow swept down the sheer 
 slopes into the canon. They were now twelve 
 thousand feet above the level of the sea, crossing 
 a shoulder of the mountain, from which they 
 looked down into deep below deep of shadow and 
 light, descending to the m'ap-like picture of river- 
 laced valley and high, barren plain, mesa, and 
 
 74 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 75 
 
 mountain, range beyond range, brown and purple 
 and blue, departing towards the infinite distance. 
 The horses panted, their ears drooped, their hoofs 
 rattled on the rocky planes up which they clam 
 bered. There was no soil and no verdure except 
 a dry, iron-stained lichen which covered the 
 uncrumbled surface of rock with its rough 
 scales. 
 
 Mr. Hillbury was in search of a prospect hole, 
 described as the highest one within a day's ride 
 of the camp, where certain fossil records of the 
 " Old Silurian " had lately come to light. By the 
 measured clink of steel upon steel, they were 
 evidently not far from some form of human labor. 
 Following the trend of the mountain, they came 
 upon two men standing face to face on a lime 
 stone ledge, at work upon it with hammer and 
 drill. Fragments of broken rock and materials 
 for blasting were scattered about. There was no 
 shelter or sign of habitation near them. Jose 
 phine, looking back to speak to Mrs. Craig, saw 
 that she had dismounted some distance below, 
 and was seated on the sloping, rocky floor, while 
 her husband readjusted her saddle-blanket. Pres 
 ently he sat down beside her, leaving the horses 
 fastened together by their bridles. 
 
76 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "Aren't they coming?" Josephine asked Mr. 
 Hillbury. 
 
 " OA, Craig ! " he called ; "are you coming up ? " 
 
 "No," was the reply. " Take your time ; we're 
 all right." 
 
 They looked as if they were. Mrs. Craig, 
 waving her hand to Josephine, stretched her 
 self out flat upon the rock. Mr. Craig doubled 
 his legs under him and lit a cigarette. Josephine 
 looked rather wistfully at this comfortable pan 
 tomime. 
 
 " Aren't you tired yourself?" Bode win asked. 
 
 "A little," she admitted. "How far is it to 
 the lake?" 
 
 " Half an hour's climb down again. Let me 
 take you off. It's a pity to get too tired on your 
 first climb." 
 
 She let herself be lifted down. Bodewin hung 
 her bridle over the pommel of his own saddle, 
 and took his place beside her on the sun-warmed 
 rock. Mr. Hillbury was already fossil-hunting, 
 tapping about with his scientific hammer, while 
 the dead home-strokes of the miner's sledge beat 
 continuously on the silence. For the sake of a 
 brief respite from the sound, Bodewin addressed 
 one of the miners ; stretching himself forward on 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 77 
 
 his elbow to examine a hole they had prepared 
 for blasting, he asked : 
 
 " Can you get enough powder in a hole of that 
 size for such hard rock ? " 
 
 " Eh ? " The man who was striking the drill 
 stopped, and the big sunburnt Irishman who held 
 it replied : 
 
 "That's what I'm tellin' him," indicating his 
 partner. " It's losin' our labor we are ! Ye'll 
 blaw and blaw and ye'll not get the fill o' yer 
 hat ! Thim drills is too short. What's he 
 afther?" he asked, leaning upon his drill, and 
 nodding his head with a confidential smile to 
 wards Mr. Hillbury. 
 
 " Prospecting for fossils," Bodewin replied. 
 
 " Is it one o' thim stawne bot'nists he is ? " 
 
 Bodewin nodded. " Something like that." 
 
 "Sure, this is the place for 'im. There's plenty 
 of it here." 
 
 He came down the ledge towards them, using 
 his tool as a staff, and ringing it on the rock with 
 each heavy, limping step. His partner remained 
 above sitting on the heels of his boots, his elbows 
 on his knees, his hands dropped between them 
 holding his idle hammer. He was a slenderly 
 built youth of about twenty, beardless, tanned to 
 
78 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 the color of a Mexican, with thin, rather hand 
 some features, and a dull, passionate expression. 
 He watched Josephine and Bodewin with listless 
 attentiveness. 
 
 "What have you got here ? " Bodewin inquired 
 of the man with the drill, picking up some pieces 
 of rock as he spoke. 
 
 "Well-le, there's galeny in it, and there's car- 
 b6iinets," he replied, turning over the fragments 
 of stone with his big, freckled, hairy hand. His 
 manner lacked the enthusiasm of the typical 
 miner, but he spoke with a degree of respect for 
 his own prospects. 
 
 " Where are your carbonates ? " Bodewin 
 asked. 
 
 " And what d'ye call thim ? " exhibiting a piece 
 of rock the color of an over-burnt brick. 
 
 "There are no carbonates here." Bodewin 
 spoke with reckless candor. " That reddish stuff 
 is the oxide of iron." 
 
 " To the divvle wid yer ox-ides ! I'll lay me 
 ould hat that's the color we're lookin' for. Is it'n 
 assay er ye are ? " 
 
 "Take it over to the stone botanist and see 
 what he makes of it," said Bodewin lazily. 
 
 " No, but is it an assay " 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 79 
 
 " Take it to the botanist ! He'll assay it for 
 you." 
 
 " He is lame ! " Josephine said, looking after 
 him as he limped away over the rocks with his 
 specimen in one hand and his drill in the other. 
 
 " Oh, no, he isn't ; it's the national walk. Don't 
 you see he is lame in both feet ? " 
 
 44 Weren't you rather cruel to him about his 
 ' carbdnnets ' ? " 
 
 " Not half as cruel as I am to Hillbury," Bode- 
 win replied, laughing. " Hillbury would keep us 
 here till night if something weren't sent to irri 
 tate him." Seeing that she still looked sorrow 
 fully after the unlucky prospector, he added, 
 " Would it be cruel to tell the camel he couldn't S 
 get through the needle's eye ? " 
 
 " Is it as hopeless as that ? Poor fellow ! he will <X 
 lose his labor, as he said." 
 
 " He will do well if he loses no more than his 
 labor. They are a queer pair. What fate do you 
 suppose sent a good-natured Irish bricklayer up 
 here nearly to the top of Sheridan, silver hunting, 
 with a Canadian half-breed, I should say by the 
 looks of him," glancing upward toward the slim 
 dark figure on the rocks above, " for a partner ? " 
 
 " WKere do you suppose they live ? " 
 
80 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "They have a bough shanty, probably, in the 
 nearest timber. Micky, I dare say, has a wife 
 down in the camp, taking in washing to feed the 
 kids, while he plays it alone up here for higher 
 stakes." 
 
 Bodewin lay stretched out upon the rock in 
 one of his camp-fire attitudes. Josephine, sitting 
 a little above him, could see only the narrowing 
 lines of the lower part of his face below his hat- 
 brim. They were sensitive lines, and looked 
 capable of much refinement of expression, but 
 they rested habitually in a quietness that was 
 like a mask. Dizzily and dreamily Josephine 
 looked about her. She felt rather than saw how 
 far they were exalted into that vast dome of 
 light ; what a little ledge of the world they rested 
 on. The sun that beat upon the rock filled her 
 veins with its potent warmth. It was like an 
 exquisitely gentle and prolonged stream of elec 
 tricity, suffusing the brain and penetrating the 
 very tissues of the bones. It was intoxicating. 
 Dark spots crossed her vision. She drew a long 
 sigh of retarded breath and closed her eyes. 
 Then she heard Bodewin speaking. 
 
 " Miss Newbold, I think after all you must let 
 me answer that question." 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 81 
 
 Josephine waited a moment before replying. 
 She felt it would be paltry to ask what question. 
 She merely said : 
 
 " Please let it be as if I had not asked it." 
 
 " How is that to be done ? " Bode win moved a 
 a little so he could look up at her as she sat above 
 him. 
 
 "May not one repent of a hasty speech, and 
 withdraw it ? " 
 
 "If there be any occasion for repentance. But 
 it is not easy to forget words sincerely spoken. 
 I think your question was a sincere one, Miss 
 Newbold." 
 
 "What would it be if it were not that?" Jose 
 phine asked. 
 
 " It would not be worth remembering. But I 
 have remembered it, you see, in spite of myself, I 
 may say. I believe I agreed with you when you 
 said you had no right to ask it. That was a 
 hasty admission on my part." 
 
 " Not at all ! You could not help seeing it was 
 a blunder. I hoped you would have seen how 
 sorry I was, and have had the grace to forget it." 
 
 Bodewin, feeling about among the loose frag 
 ments of rock under his hand, chose one and 
 skipped it downward, watching it glinting along 
 
82 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 on its precipitious course until it vanished in the 
 purple depth of shadow below them. 
 
 " Grant that it was a blunder," he resumed, " I 
 think you do not often blunder in that way. 
 There must have been some force of feeling be 
 hind the speech that you so deprecate. It could 
 hardly have come from your lips merely." He 
 looked at her and smiled. " We are in for it now, 
 you see." 
 
 She did not return the smile. "I don't know 
 what you mean by ' in for it.' There is no ques 
 tion. I have withdrawn it. It doesn't exist." 
 
 " You have a very lofty little way of annihilat 
 ing the past; unfortunately, it doesn't affect my 
 past. The question still exists for me. It has 
 been existing steadily and waxing troublesome 
 ever since I saw you." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Josephine, with a sigh of impa 
 tience. 
 
 "Well, then, why did you ask it, Miss New- 
 bold? You charged me the other evening with 
 being a renegade to justice. Is it not so? " 
 
 Josephine opened her lips to protest, but saw 
 the hopelessness of it, apparently, and preserved 
 her silence of sufferance. Bodewin smiled again 
 quietly : 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 83 
 
 "It is not often a woman is called to plead 
 for justice in opposition to sentiment for my 
 answer to your question must be in the name of 
 something I shall have to call sentiment for want 
 of a better word. You see what an unusual 
 opportunity you have given me. It should be 
 made a precedent, if only I were worthy of my 
 r61e." He jerked another pebble from his fingers 
 into the abyss, and again he looked with a half- 
 fascinated, half-teasing smile into the girl's troub 
 led face. 
 
 " When will you hear my poor defence ? There 
 is not time to offer it now ; besides, I should like 
 to get up my case a little before presenting it." 
 
 Josephine would not speak. She felt how hot 
 and flushed her cheeks were, and how her lips 
 trembled in spite of herself. 
 
 " You will not be cruel enough to go away and 
 leave the ghost of that unanswered question 
 haunting me. I shall hear you all the way from 
 Kansas City, saving, ' If you care for justice, why 
 won't you ' ' 
 
 " Will you please not repeat my words ? " she 
 interrupted, haughtily. 
 
 There was not a trace of mockery in his voice 
 when he spoke again. 
 
84 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " They are not your words. You have parted 
 with them; they have a life of their own now. 
 Not if you live a thousand years will you ever get 
 them back again." 
 
 She turned her full face towards him with a 
 speechless, startled movement. 
 
 " You cannot separate a vital question from its 
 answer," he continued. " You know that every 
 now and then in the life of a nation or of a man 
 the time comes for somebody to ask a question. 
 The person who asks it may not wish to be the 
 one chosen ; but once the word is out it cannot 
 rest until it gets itself answered, if it is a real 
 question, even if it takes the nation's life, or the 
 man's, to answer it. I have not deliberately 
 thought about your question, Miss Newbold, 
 but it is no exaggeration to say that since I 
 saw you last I have thought of but little else. 
 If I cannot answer it to your satisfaction, you 
 v may summon me to the trial as your witness." 
 
 "Answer it to yourself," she said, "and if 
 truth and justice do not summon you, you have 
 no right to be there." 
 
 / " There are other obligations besides those of 
 truth and justice." 
 
 " But I think those must come first." 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 85 
 
 " Now you touch upon the reason why I wish 
 to lay my little problem before you. I had de 
 cided in favor of certain other obligations ; I dare 
 say I have become morbid about them. Because 
 of your untroubled preference for truth and jus 
 tice, and because you are a stranger, unbiased, as 
 a wise young judge should be, I desire to set my 
 small difficulty before you. I am tired of it. 
 My conscience, when I question it, gives out only 
 indistinct mutterings." 
 
 "You ask far too much of me. I cannot do 
 this for you, Mr. Bodewin. I am not untroubled. 
 I am not unbiased. I was thinking of my father. 
 When I spoke to you I feared you might be refus 
 ing to testify because you knew of some reason, 
 unknown to him or to Mr. Craig, why he ought 
 not to win his suit. It was, of course, my own 
 misgiving entirely. I have never mentioned it to 
 any one, but it seemed to me a terrible thing that 
 you should be willing to stand aside and see an 
 honest man commit an unintentional fraud." 
 
 "But I told you I believed your father's side 
 was the right side, did I not ? " 
 
 " Yes, and I was satisfied." 
 
 " Then, once more, please, why did you ask me 
 that question ? " 
 
86 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " Why did I what ? " said Josephine confus 
 edly. 
 
 " It was after I gave you, unconsciously enough, 
 that satisfaction you speak of, that you said, well, 
 you will not let me repeat the words. Was there 
 not another misgiving? Has that been satisfied ? " 
 
 " No," said Josephine, helplessly, " but it does 
 not concern me." 
 
 "Whom does it concern, may I ask? " 
 
 "I am not so anxious to answer questions as 
 you are." 
 
 " Does it concern me. Miss Newbold ? I seem 
 to be flattering myself, but there are not so many 
 parties in this affair. I can hardly suppose it is 
 Mr. Harkins you " 
 
 " I know I have brought this on myself," cried 
 Josephine in desperate annoyance, " but don't you 
 think it has gone far enough now ? " 
 
 " As soon as you have promised to give me an 
 opportunity to reply to whatever doubt prompted 
 your question, it will have gone far enough not 
 till then." 
 
 " I have said that it does not concern me, and 
 have asked your pardon for letting you know I 
 had the doubt, or for having it, if you like. Can 
 I do more ? " 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 87 
 
 " You have not said that your suspicions do not 
 concern me" 
 
 " Suspicions ! " 
 
 " We will go back to the original word then 
 your question. Say that your question did not 
 concern me, and I will not insist upon answer^ 
 ing it." 
 
 Josephine was silent. 
 
 " You have called me to account for a course of 
 action I am at perfect liberty to take and which 
 no man has yet questioned. Is it quite just for 
 you to refuse to hear my defence, such as it is ? I 
 don't claim it is sufficient." 
 
 " I will hear it." 
 
 " When, please ? " 
 
 " Whenever you like. But I cannot attempt to 
 influence your decision. I would not do it if you 
 were my own brother." 
 
 " It would be much less easy for you to, if I 
 were. Does it seem to you too intimate a thing 
 for me to ask of you? " 
 
 " Yes, it does ! " she exclaimed eagerly " pre 
 cisely that ! " 
 
 " I don't regard it so, and I promise you I will 
 not take advantage of it as an approach to any 
 thing of the sort in the future. For that matter, 
 
88 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 jour acquaintance has no future any more than it 
 lias a past. It shares the spirit of this place, 
 where we all live and live fast in the present, and 
 then separate and know each other no more. I 
 should like to believe that some instinct of help 
 fulness in you prompted those words which you 
 regret, because they were unconventional. Don't 
 regret them. Don't take back your words, but be 
 true to them, and be brave enough not to shirk 
 the sequel to them. The sequel to a question is 
 its answer." 
 
 Josephine was far more startled by his earnest 
 ness than she had been chagrined by his badinage. 
 
 " Oh I " she cried in desperation, " why will 
 you insist upon enforcing the sequel to such a 
 foolish beginning? Why not let it rest? What 
 is it but a trifle a few poor words ? " 
 
 " It is not a trifle to me, coming from you, if 
 you please. It amounts to an accusation. It 
 cannot be withdrawn to my satisfaction until it 
 has been answered." 
 
 " I will listen to your answer, but more than 
 that I insist you must not ask of me. I am not 
 an expert on matters of the conscience and I 
 am being slowly consumed on this rock," she 
 sighed. 
 
JOSEPHINE'S QUESTION. 89 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he said, springing to his feet 
 and holding out a hand to help her to rise. 
 "Have I made you hate me ?" 
 
 "Yes!" she declared. "Do not put your 
 problem in my hands. I am as biased as the 
 most disagreeable half-hour I ever spent in my 
 life can make me ! " 
 
 "I am sorry you should be indebted to me 
 for it." 
 
 " Oh, I am not ! I am indebted to myself. But 
 I shall hate you for it, just the same." 
 
 " I have no doubt of it. I ought to be proud 
 to suffer vicariously when I can save you from 
 yourself by doing so. You must be very severe 
 with yourself when you are fairly roused." 
 
 " I think I have never been fairly roused." 
 
 " If you will pardon the conjunction, I think 
 we neither of us have," he said. 
 
 " It must be a horrible experience to be utterly 
 and fundamentally hateful to one's self." 
 
 " I think it is an experience that comes to but 
 few, and not to those who most need it. Here 
 comes Hillbury ! He seems to have torn himself 
 from the bosom of the Old Silurian at last." 
 
 As Bodewin put Josephine on her saddle again, 
 he said to her, " Whatever it was you accused me 
 
90 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 of in your own thoughts, let it rest until I can 
 talk with you again." 
 
 " ' Still harping,' " she replied, and hurried 
 after Mr. Hillbury, who had mounted and ridden 
 on to join the Craigs. Bodewin followed mus 
 ingly, and did not attempt to lessen the distance 
 between them. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ME. CKAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 
 
 THE lake, when they had reached it, was, after 
 all, in size hardly more than a large pond. It 
 was on the edge of the timber, a clear, still eye 
 of water, darkly bordered by pine-trees, with one 
 bright spot of reflected blue shining in the 
 middle, like an immeasurable far-off sky in the 
 depths of the lake. They dismounted again and 
 spread out their lunch in the dappled shade. It 
 was not an hilarious picnic. Mrs. Craig and 
 Josephine were both tired. The latter was also 
 dazed with her long discussion on the rocks in 
 the blinding sunlight. Bodewin, she thought, 
 must be of the salamander species, since he was 
 so sluggish in the shade and woke to such a burst 
 of argumentative energy in the glare of the sun. 
 He ate little and talked less, relapsing into the 
 background of conversation, as his wont was 
 when it became general. 
 
 When the sylvan meal was over, Mr. Craig 
 91 
 
92 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 unslung his shot-gun from his saddle and clam 
 bered down into the heavier timber, in search of 
 wood-pigeons, he said, an object which excited 
 the derision of the other men of the party. 
 Bode win referred to the "man in the wilderness,'' 
 and asked Mrs. Craig, as an authority on nursery 
 rhymes, to quote for him : 
 
 " The man in the wilderness asked me 
 How many strawberries grew in the sea. 
 I answered him as I thought good 
 As many as red-herrings grow in the wood." 
 
 " What are you laughing at ? because he goes 
 to the wood for wood-pigeons ? " asked Mrs. Craig. 
 
 "To this particular wood," said Hillbury. 
 " You would not laugh at a man for going to the 
 sea for fish ; but if he were much of a fisherman, 
 he would hardly go to Baffin's Bay for mullet." 
 
 " Oh, you are all so technical," said Mrs. Craig; 
 " for my part I think a little vague general infor 
 mation is much more restful." 
 
 They sat under the low spruce boughs by the 
 lake, talking and listening in the rustle of the 
 deep tideless water and the sur-r-r-ing of the wind 
 in the trees. Mr. Hillbury produced his fossils, 
 delicate forms of earliest organic life imprinted in 
 glistening pyrites on the dark Silurian slate- 
 
MR. CRAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 93 
 
 The ladies held the fragments of the old sea-beach 
 on the palms of their hands, and examined them 
 with a magnifying glass, exclaiming over them in 
 their soft staccato. Once there came from the 
 wood the sound of a single shot. Bodewin and 
 Hillbury both recognized it as the note of Craig's 
 gun. 
 
 " He has found the wood-pigeon I " 
 They waited for a second shot, but none came. 
 When the slanting sunbeams had pierced their 
 covert, they abandoned it, and strolled along the 
 shore of the lake. Mr. Hillbury walked with 
 Josephine, pointing out to her the long formless 
 ridges which marked the recession of one of those 
 vast glacial seas that had crawled down the 
 mountain-sides during the epoch of ice. The 
 lake had been formed between two of these 
 ancient moraines. Solitary, unvisited, bare of 
 human association or tradition as it was, ' / 
 " foster-child of silence and slow time," its 
 cradled waters were uncounted centuries old 
 before the story of man began. 
 
 Bodewin jeered at his friend a little for his 
 popular science, and was rebuked by Mrs. Craig. 
 She had herself more than once interrupted Mr. 
 Hillbury, and asked for a moment's silence, 
 
94 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 during which she seemed to listen for sounds 
 from the wood. 
 
 The afternoon wore away. The sun dropped 
 below the western ridge and left the lake gray in 
 shadow. Since the single report of his gun, 
 nothing had been heard from Craig. His wife 
 could no longer conceal her wretchedness at his 
 absence. She sat, pale and silent, looking from 
 one to the other, while Bodewin and Hillbury 
 persistently made light of it, meanwhile planning 
 a search for him on the excuse that it was already 
 late for their homeward start. The pleasure 
 party had reached a pitch of positive demoraliza 
 tion, as far as the women were concerned, when 
 Craig himself was heard shouting from the oppo 
 site shore of the lake. He was walking fast 
 under the trees, apparently none the worse for 
 the gun which he carried over his shoulder. Mrs. 
 Craig was a little overcome at the sight of him, 
 and laughed in a nervous, immoderate way at her 
 late fears ; but she recovered herself when Craig 
 arrived, red and out of breath with his hurried 
 walk around the lake, and received him with 
 lively upbraidings. He was unnecessarily cheer 
 ful, and he had besides an important air of adven 
 ture about him which, under the circumstances, 
 
MR. CRAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 95 
 
 called for immediate snubbing. When he had 
 been brought to a proper sense of his weakness 
 and evil behavior, he was allowed to tell his 
 story. 
 
 " But first, where is the wood-pigeon ? " said 
 Hillbury. 
 
 " Oh, I found her, but I didn't bring her 
 home ! " Craig did not mind confessing, he said, 
 that he had missed his bearings. " One part of 
 the wood looked so confoundedly like another, 
 and there was no wind." 
 
 " No wind! " his wife interrupted. 
 
 " Not in the timber not a breath and 
 mighty little sun. You are higher up, remember. 
 You had an hour's more sun than I had. I began 
 to think I had been walking about long enough 
 without getting anywhere, when I heard a horse 
 whinny. A few steps on I came to a corral, and 
 just beyond it a biggish log-cabin. The back end 
 of it ran butt into the dump of an old prospect 
 hole. The ground rose suddenly behind the 
 cabin, and the dump sloped up against the hill. 
 There was a long bench by the door, and there 
 sat the prettiest girl, in a calico dress, with her 
 arms bare, feeding a setter-pup ! She had him in 
 her lap, and he was nuzzling about in a saucer of 
 
96 JOHN BODEWLN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 milk she held, and sometimes licking her arms by 
 mistake. She had one of those low Greek heads 
 my wife likes so much, with small intelligence in 
 it, I should say, but plenty of hair on it yellow 
 hair, braided in two tails and wound around the 
 head. I asked her the way to the lake. She 
 stared at me and said she didn't know of any 
 lake ; she hadn't been in these parts long. She 
 had a kind of sweet, stolid way that was uncom 
 monly taking in connection with her looks. I 
 wanted to look at her a little longer, so I asked 
 her if the pup was for sale." 
 
 Mr. Craig was here interrupted in his narrative 
 by laughter and applause. 
 
 44 She said that she didn't know. Her father 
 wasn't home. I might call again and inquire. I 
 asked her when I would be likely to find her 
 father at home in case I called. She couldn't tell. 
 Her father was mostly home except when he 
 went to the camp, or over the range to a pros 
 pect he had there. 
 
 " I asked permission to climb up the dump and 
 see if I could get a better view of my surround 
 ings from the top of it. She gave me permission 
 and followed me up there with the pup in her 
 arms. There was just a streak of sunlight left. 
 
MR. CRAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 97 
 
 It touched her hair very prettily, and it showed 
 me which way was west, and so I made for the 
 lake and left her there, making no end of a 
 pretty picture of herself with the sun on her 
 golden hair." 
 
 " Tlie man in the wilderness asked me 
 How many strawberries grew in the sea. 
 I answered him as I thought good 
 As many as pretty girls grow in the wood," 
 
 laughed Mrs. Craig. 
 
 " Come, 'saddle up, saddle!" said Bodewin. 
 "We won't get out of the woods now before 
 dark ! " 
 
 Mr. Newbold had ordered a supper . for the 
 party on their return. Mrs. Craig excused her 
 self on her children's account from remaining to 
 it. Craig, as he rode away beside his wife, called 
 back to Hillbury : 
 
 "The next time you go up the lake way, look 
 up my cabin in the timber, will you ? I'll com 
 mission you to get me that setter-pup." 
 
 " I don't see how you can stand so much of 
 Craig," said Bodewin, crossly. 
 
 " Craig is a good fellow." 
 
 " A good fellow, yes and a common fellow. 
 It makes me sick to see him ride." 
 
98 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " He rides well enough," said Hillbury. " The 
 fact is, there isn't one man in a hundred one 
 wants to spend a whole day in the woods with." 
 
 "As for that cabin and girl and pup story," 
 Bodewin went on. 
 
 " Don't you believe it ? " asked Hillbury. 
 
 " Hardly. I am tolerably well acquainted with 
 those woods myself. He got himself lost, like 
 the tender-foot he is, and invented this story 
 to carry it off. That sunlight-on-her-yellow-hair 
 business is rather too must}^." 
 
 " I think you are mistaken, Bodewin. Craig to 
 me looked and talked like a man who had just 
 had that sort of luck, to be stumbling along dis 
 gustedly and suddenly come upon the little idyl 
 in the forest. If it were an invention, why put 
 in the old prospect hole and the setter-pup ? " 
 
 " It is possible he has seen such a cabin and 
 such a group by the door, but I doubt if he saw 
 them this afternoon." 
 
 " Bodewin, I will bet you a box of cigars I will 
 find that cabin myself within a week." 
 
 " You'll waste your time and lose your cigars, 
 and Craig is an ass ! " 
 
 They were in the office of the Wiltsie House, 
 sitting on the row of chairs along the wall oppo- 
 
ME. CEAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 99 
 
 site the clerk's desk. In the confusion of un 
 modulated voices their own lower tones were 
 lost. 
 
 " How long would you be a friend of Mrs. 
 Craig if she knew you thought so?" Hillbury 
 asked. 
 
 " I am not indebted to Craig for his wife's ac 
 quaintance. I knew Mrs. Craig years before he 
 ever saw her. At a pinch I dare say she could 
 exist without me, and I possibly without her. 
 There are times when I find Craig too great 
 a discount on the friendship of any woman." 
 
 " What is the matter with you, old man ? " 
 
 "Hillbury," said Bodewin, with a sudden 
 change of manner, taking a small, worn, leather 
 note-book from his pocket, and turning over its 
 pages absently, " I wish the Lord would let me 
 burn this book ! I have dropped it down shafts ; 
 I have left it in my old coat-pockets when I 
 moved camp, and had it sent back to me ; I have, 
 within the past year, taken it out more than 
 once with as deliberate intention as I have of 
 going to bed to-night of destroying it. Upon my 
 soul I can't do it ! " 
 
 " What have you in it ? " 
 
 "Well, amongst other things, some memoranda 
 
100 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 relating to the Harkins and. Eagle Bird suit. 
 The Eagle Bird people want me to appear on 
 their side." 
 
 " So I have heard," Hillbury said, much inter 
 ested, and quietly observant of his friend. He 
 had speculated not a little upon the probable 
 meaning of Bodewin's reluctance to testify on 
 this suit, even as he often speculated about Bode- 
 win himself; but the two men might have been 
 the sole occupants of a lighthouse for a year 
 without its once occurring to Hillbury to ask his 
 friend the question Miss Newbold had posed him 
 with an hour after his introduction to her. 
 
 u Yes," Bodewin continued. " It's a horrible 
 nuisance. I would like to tell you about it, but 
 you know me too well, Hillbury. I should hate 
 to have the thing perpetually associated with me 
 in your mind. The only people, after all, to con 
 fide in, are those whom you like at first sight, and 
 never expect to see again." 
 
 "I don't agree with you, but then that's noth 
 ing new." 
 
 "I will tell you this much," Bodewin began, 
 but Hillbury interrupted. 
 
 " Why tell me anything if you don't wish to tell 
 me all ? Half confidences are so often misleading." 
 
MB. CRAIG GOES A-HUNTING. 101 
 
 " Because it botes me so ! Hillbury, I am sold 
 into bondage I-' I am under an obligation to Har- 
 kins, a most delicate, personal, strenuous obli 
 gation. It is a thousand times worse than if 
 he had saved my life. It involves Bodewin . 
 found he had been precipitate after all. He could 
 not say to Hillbury, whose people in the East 
 knew his own, " It involves my sister's name and 
 memory." He paused, with his friend's dark, 
 grave eyes resting on his face, and ended stupidly. 
 "It involves the name of a woman one of the 
 sweetest God ever made for man to destroy. If I 
 have to balk Harkins's game, he is just clever 
 enough to see that here is his revenge. Don't I 
 know with what an unholy glee he would parade 
 my obligation to him and his generosity to her 
 whose name I must protect ? " 
 
 " Bodewin, my dear fellow, will you forgive me 
 for saying this whole thing, as you hint at it, 
 sounds to me fantastic and morbid. I have 
 always suspected you of a dangerous kind of 
 enthusiasm in your moral processes. The busi 
 ness of living is, after all, nothing but a series of 
 investments at a high rate of interest with corre- ' 
 sponding risks, or at a low rate with good secur 
 ity. I am afraid you go in too much for the 
 
102 
 
 ten per cents and the risks in your moral invest 
 ments." 
 
 " What do you mean by the risks ? " 
 
 "You can't need to be told what they are. You'd 
 better stick to the plain lines of duty, so far as 
 Harkins is concerned, and protect your own name 
 first. It occurs to you, no doubt, that this is a 
 little gratuitous on my part ; but I am older than 
 } r ou, and on some points not so sensitive." 
 
 " Not so vulnerable, you mean," said Bodewin, 
 with a touch of bitterness. 
 
 Hillbury had no time to respond before Mr. 
 Newbold joined them with his daughter's excuses 
 instead of her company. " She was tired," he 
 said, " and did not care to change her dress. She'd 
 have come down fast enough if Mrs. Craig had 
 stayed, but she's not accustomed to be the only 
 lady; and the restaurant, you know, at this 
 hour " 
 
 The green-baize-covered door closed upon the 
 sentence. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BODEWIN'S SISTER. 
 
 BODEWIN belonged to that generation of the 
 country's youth which was hurried into prema 
 ture manhood by the shock of the civil war. 
 He was sixteen the spring of 1861, when his 
 elder brother left home in response to the Presi 
 dent's call for volunteers. That summer young 
 Bode win went up to Yale to pass his preliminary 
 examination. He was already a man in stature, 
 and it was thought the best way to keep him from 
 haunting the recruiting offices. The second year 
 closed darkly, with Burnside's losses before 
 Fredericksburg, which increased the demoraliza 
 tion of the Army of the Potomac, on which the 
 hopes of the East were fixed. Bodewin entered 
 with all the passionate pessimism of youth, de 
 barred from action, into the uncertainties of the 
 situation. If disruption were at hand, he did not 
 care for his future : if the war were to be success 
 fully and honorably brought to a close, he could 
 
 103 
 
104 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 not accept it at the price of some better man's 
 life. Thus he brooded, sitting on the college 
 fence, under the budding elms, in the sad spring 
 twilights. 
 
 He wrote to his brother for advice. Captain 
 Bode win told him plainly that his place was with 
 the non-combatants for at least four years to 
 come, and reminded him that in all wars, in all 
 ages, the widow has ever been entitled to one 
 son. This was not the advice young Bodewin 
 wanted. In the face of it he abandoned his 
 books and followed his boyish leadings into the 
 army, enlisting as a private in his brother's regi 
 ment, the Connecticut Cavalry. He served 
 
 faithfully, but without distinction, until the close 
 of the war. When the armies were disbanded he 
 went home alone, an old-looking boy of twenty, 
 already acquainted with grief, lean of cheek and 
 limb, with hollows under his young eyes, with a 
 habit of silence, with the discipline of ten years 
 crowded into two a discipline with stern limita 
 tions, however. He had learned something of 
 endurance, of obedience, and of self-restraint; 
 but of the world of men and women he had been 
 spared to spend his life among, he had all to learn. 
 
 The house had lost its mainstay that wise elder 
 
BODEWIN'S SISTER. 105 
 
 brother, whom the mother believed Heaven had 
 given her to be the support of her widowed 
 years. He had fallen in the last great charge of 
 the war. His loss was embittered to Bodewin by 
 a sense of its needlessness, for the struggle was 
 virtually over. It seemed as if the lives lost that 
 day were but heaped upon the over-full measure 
 of the nation's dead, in the very wantonness of 
 sacrifice. 
 
 The night after the battle Bodewin searched 
 the field for his brother's body. A comrade kept 
 at his side, and helped him in his last poor ser 
 vices to the dead. The young men were of the 
 same regiment ; each had seen and approved the 
 other in action, but beyond this they scarcely knew 
 each other's names. As' they stood together by 
 the new-made grave, in the white dawn before 
 sunrise, Bodewin had said to his comrade : 
 
 " My mother must thank you for this night's 
 work." 
 
 They parted with a promise from Lieutenant 
 Eustis that he would visit Bodewin at the latter's 
 home if both lived to see the end of the war. 
 
 Eustis had accepted the invitation with some 
 diffidence. 
 
 "You must not ask me under an impression 
 
106 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 that I was a friend of your brother's," he had 
 said. " I admired him greatly, but I am bound to 
 confess that, so far as I know, the feeling was not 
 mutual." 
 
 Bodewin could not have known that this scru 
 pulousness was far from being characteristic of 
 Frank Eustis. It was a genuine touch of candor 
 and humility won from him by the circumstances 
 which had brought the two young men together ; 
 but it was misleading, as only nature can be. 
 
 Bodewin took up the responsibilities death had 
 laid on him in a condition of mind and body cal 
 culated to breed morbid views of duty. He was 
 physically relaxed by the reaction which followed 
 the change from army life to the life of home. 
 The heaviness of his first sorrow was upon him. 
 There was, besides, the dawn of another sorrow 
 he could not blind himself to. It could hardly 
 be called a change in his mother ; a lapse, rather, 
 of the powers mental as well as physical the 
 mark left by the war on a gentle nature, strong 
 only in its affections. The heart of the family 
 she would be, ever. Its head she had ceased to 
 be. 
 
 Bodewin resigned his hopes of a profession, 
 and applied himself to the resuscitation of his 
 
BODEWIN'S SISTER. 107 
 
 mother's property. His father had for fifteen 
 years held a professorship in an Eastern college. 
 Late in life he had married the only surviving jj 
 child and heiress of Simeon Wills, a member of 
 the Society of Friends, and a well-to-do farmer, 
 who had widened his landmarks on the Sound 
 shore of Connecticut until they included about 
 three hundred acres of salt-marsh, sea-beach, 
 woodland, and stony pasture. To their grand 
 father's house Tristram Bodewiii's widow had 
 taken her children after her husband's death, and 
 since that time, early in their childish recollec 
 tions, they had known no other home. 
 
 True to her father's faith herself, she had not 
 tried to make proselytes even of her own chil 
 dren, but to each one in different degrees she had 
 transmitted that quiet persistence which was one 
 of her own least conspicuous but most inherent 
 traits. 
 
 Bodewin had left his sister a child. A child 
 she still seemed to him, although she was tall for 
 sixteen, when to the broken household came 
 Eustis in his faded cavalry uniform, with his 
 record of fifty battles and that last service of his 
 to the dead son of the house to aid him in mak 
 ing an impression. Ellen Bodewin was not a 
 
108 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 beauty, but in many ways she was beautiful. In 
 after years, when the thought of his sister had 
 become the permanent ache of his heart, Bodewin 
 always saw her as he used to see her that summer, 
 crossing the grass at twilight in her white dress 
 and black ribbons, her profile distinct, almost 
 luminous in its fairness, against the mass of dark- 
 green shrubbery. 
 
 Bodewin spent many hours that summer at the 
 black, pigeon-holed " secretary" in the dining- 
 room, employed in a retrospect of accounts which 
 invariably closed with the balance on the wrong 
 side. The short, warm evenings he spent with 
 his mother, in the unlighted parlor, where she lay 
 on her sofa in the exhaustion of spent and tear 
 less grief. In those silent sessions with their 
 dead, mother and son alike felt that the child of 
 the house should have no part. Her share in the 
 family sorrow had been less, as her knowledge of 
 her brother was less than theirs ; and her age was 
 not ripe for sorrow. Yet they would have keenly 
 resented any outside suggestion that Ellen took 
 their great and common loss not sufficiently to 
 heart. 
 
 Eustis came for a week the first time. He 
 spoke of business engagements in New York. 
 
109 
 
 Bodewin found him there a month later, looking 
 haggard and seedy. An old wound he had car 
 ried since Fredericksburg had been troubling him, 
 he said. His family were in Genoa, where his 
 father held a consulship. Bodewin asked him to 
 come to Cranberry Beach for another fortnight, 
 and incidentally lent him a little money. Again 
 Eustis and Ellen were together, and in the still; 
 
 midsummer weather another tragedy of the war 
 
 , I 
 was hurrying to its consummation. 
 
 On the edge of the lawn where it sloped toward 
 the pied salt marshes, there was a granite bowl 
 der, cool, deeply bedded in ferns, and shaded by a 
 clump of maple trees. A breeze from the blue 
 water beyond the marshes was always blowing in 
 their tops. On the hottest days, when the close- 
 sheltered house dozed in the sun, Eustis, with the 
 chess-board and the hammock-cushions under his 
 arm, followed by Ellen shading her forehead with 
 the latest magazine, crossed the dry, scintillating 
 grass to this island of coolness and shadow. They 
 were as secluded here, with the fields of heat 
 making a wide stillness around them, as Ferdi 
 nand and Miranda in the island cave. 
 
 There were sandy paths through the scrub oak 
 and barberry bushes leading to the shore, and 
 
110 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 there was a shallow river winding through the 
 marshes, down which they drifted, sitting face to 
 face but seldom speaking. All these landways 
 and waterways they had taken together before 
 the fortnight was over. They led all in the same 
 direction, and ended in the catastrophe of a 
 young girl's life. 
 
 In those days men were worshipped because 
 they were soldiers merely. They needed no 
 other attribute, and Eustis possessed several 
 others beside that perilous association with a 
 brother's memory. When after the second visit 
 Bodewin heard his mother ask Eustis to come to 
 them again at Christmas, if his family were still 
 abroad, it occurred to him at last that they were 
 seeing a good deal of their summer guest. On 
 his next visit to New York he took pains to make 
 some inquiries about Eustis. It was like going to 
 a shelf piled with rubbish and pulling at a corner 
 of the lowest object of the heap. He found a 
 clew to one shabby little affair in looking up Eus- 
 tis's antecedents, and the rest came tumbling 
 about his ears. It was sickening, but it was a 
 necessary lesson for the protector of a family of 
 women to learn, and Bodewin congratulated him 
 self on having learned it in good season. He was 
 
Ill 
 
 alone with his mother in the dining-room on the 
 evening of his return. It was now late in Octo 
 ber, and the evenings were cool. The blaze of a 
 few sticks on the hearth was the only light in the 
 room, while the open door showed a broad patch 
 of moonlight on the hall floor, squared with the 
 shadow of the window sash. Bode win told his 
 mother all that seemed "necessary of his discov 
 eries in regard to Eustis. 
 
 " He must not come at Christmas, or at any 
 other time," he concluded. 
 
 Mrs. Bodewin seemed troubled beyond a 
 reasonable conception of any feeling she could 
 possibly have in the matter. Did he wish the 
 acquaintance to cease ? she asked her son. 
 
 " On the part of the women of the family, yes," 
 he replied. 
 
 She reminded him of the family obligation. 
 He assured her he would take care of that. In 
 the greatest agitation she begged him to be care 
 ful what he said, for his sister's sake. 
 
 "What has Eustis to do with my sister?" 
 Bodewin inquired, and then the blow came. Eus 
 tis had asked Ellen to be his wife. She loved 
 him, and was waiting only for the consent of her 
 mother and brother. The mother had already 
 
112 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 given hers. Ellen had been receiving letters from 
 Eustis since his last visit. Mrs. Bodewin had felt 
 obliged to speak to her about them. She had 
 first done so during Bodewin's absence, and had 
 then received her child's confession. 
 
 Eustis had offered himself to her before his de 
 parture. She had not permitted him to speak to 
 her family then, because the time had seemed unfit. 
 
 " She was not ashamed to do the thing she was 
 ashamed to speak of ! " Bodewin burst out pas 
 sionately. 
 
 " She is but a child ! What else can she be ? " 
 the mother pleaded. " And she has not answered 
 his letters or given him her promise except on 
 conditions." 
 
 " Eustis is not the man for her to be making 
 conditions with, mother ! If she is a child, she 
 must be treated like one. She must be prevented 
 from doing herself this injury." 
 
 " It is done, it is done ! " the mother wailed, 
 "and we have done it. It lies at our door." 
 
 "It lies at my door!" said Bodewin. "Mother, 
 I no more imagined any danger to Ellen in his 
 being here than to you. How was I to know a 
 girl is like that? To be won in a week, in a 
 month, by the first man who looks at her! To 
 
BODEWTN'S SISTER. 113 
 
 be thinking of a lover, with her brother not six 
 months in his grave ! " 
 
 " Hush ! '' his mother said, rising and pointing 
 towards the door as she faltered towards him. 
 He turned and confronted his sister. She had 
 heard his words distinctly in the quiet house 
 as she came down the stairs from her chamber. 
 What influence Bode win might have gained over 
 her, when his revolt against the pang of self- 
 conviction cooled, had she never heard those wild 
 words, may be questioned. As it was, the insult 
 had struck too deep for explanation or retraction. 
 There was, perhaps, enough of truth in the words 
 to make them unforgivable. Bodewin patiently 
 went over the charges against Eustis with his 
 mother, and in turn she endeavored to set them 
 before Ellen. The effect they produced was one 
 of repulsion, not towards the accused, but the 
 accuser. She was prepared for prejudice in one 
 by whom she had herself been misjudged, and the 
 seeds of counsel fell upon stony ground. There 
 were long, heart-breaking arguments between 
 mother and daughter, and hopeless consultations 
 between mother and son. But the brother and 
 sister were no longer on terms of argument or 
 consultation, still less of entreaty. 
 
114 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 The struggle ended as it must always end 
 between young love and old decrees. It was a 
 relief at last when the marriage took place, two 
 years later. Ellen's position had come to be that 
 of a martyr persecuted by her brother for her 
 faithfulness to her lover ; for the mother had not 
 been able to keep a consistent attitude of protest, 
 and long before the marriage took place had 
 offered but a passive resistance. Her losses had 
 weakened her power of enduring the pain of 
 those she loved. The risks of Ellen's marriage 
 were in the future, while the sight of her unhap- 
 piness was an ever-present torture. Nor was it 
 possible for a woman with Mrs. Bodewin's experi 
 ence of men and of marriage to conceive what 
 those risks were likely to be with one like Eustis. 
 She had no real conception of Eustis himself, a 
 man who could not be relied upon even in the 
 direction of his weaknesses, for with a fatal incon- 
 I sistency he had not been weak in his pursuit 
 of Ellen. He had been as true to his purpose 
 as if the truth were in him. 
 
 According to his weakness and her strength he 
 no doubt loved her, and the purest sentiment of 
 his life kept him at his highest level during the 
 months of his probation. There were times when 
 
115 
 
 Bodewin was ready to believe that it was he who 
 was the victim of hallucination, and that Ellen's 
 case was indeed one of persecution, so filled was the 
 house with that sense of her outraged love which 
 her mute presence conveyed. But on the day of 
 her marriage, in that searching light in which 
 love, acknowledged and triumphant, exhibits it 
 self, Bodewin saw that he was not mistaken. In 
 certain sure and subtle ways he felt that the 
 bridegroom was hopelessly beneath the dignity of 
 his part. It could only be a question of time. 
 
 It was now thirteen years since the day of his 
 sister's marriage, and during ten of those years 
 Bodewin had held himself ready for the time 
 when she would need him. His life had been 
 ordered solely with reference to that time and 
 that atonement he believed he would be per 
 mitted to make his sister for the husband he had 
 given her and the father he had given her 
 children. He thought no more of marriage for 
 himself than if his mother and sister had been the 
 only women in the world. He felt that his sister 
 held a mortgage on his life, and year by year the 
 unpaid interest went to swell the debt. 
 
 Eustis took his young wife to Virginia City, 
 where he began his business career as a broker in 
 
116 
 
 mines and real estate. In the course of a year or 
 two he had joined that wandering community 
 which follows the changes of luck from one 
 mining camp to another. 
 
 Bodewin made mines his business also, in a 
 different way, partly that he might not lose sight 
 of his sister on her unblest pilgrimage, partly 
 because the event had proved that he was no 
 farmer, and he needed to put money in his purse 
 for the time when his sister would accept his 
 atonement. The mother still lived at Cranberry 
 Beach, in the retirement that suited her health 
 and circumstances, with an unmarried sister as 
 her companion. Those lapses of memory which 
 had first warned Bodewin of the break in his 
 mother's strength were now her greatest mercy. 
 
 Ellen seldom wrote, never unless in times 
 of comparative prosperity ; and as these grew 
 more and more infrequent, the letters came at 
 longer and longer intervals. They knew that 
 children were born to her, and that she had lost 
 children, but of the nameless humiliations of her 
 life, of the eddy of shabby cares in which it went 
 round and round, wearing into her soul, they 
 could but silently conjecture ; and as one pro 
 phecy after another of all those that had been 
 
BODEWIN'S SISTEK. 117 
 
 made concerning her marriage fulfilled itself, she 
 wrapped herself more and more closely in the fate 
 she had chosen, and hid her wounds with a pride 
 that seemed all that was left of her love for her 
 brother. The loving can never understand those 
 who have ceased to love ; and as little as he could 
 comprehend the sundering of a life-tie like that 
 between himself and the sister he had so inno 
 cently and hopelessly injured, still less could 
 Bodewin fathom the mystery of a weak man's 
 hold on the life of a strong woman, who holds 
 forlornly to her own pure vow, as the sanctifica- 
 tion of the shame it covers. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 
 
 day, now three years gone, in the Mining 
 Exchange in San Francisco, Bodewin took up a 
 Deadwood paper, a week old by its date, and saw 
 a notice of the death of Frank Eustis. His body 
 had been found in the street, dead by his own 
 hand; "probable cause, domestic anxieties and 
 drink." The notice was headed, "Good-bye, 
 Frank ! " Bodewin learned more of the affair 
 later in Deadwood, from Henry Wilkinson, a 
 lawyer of his acquaintance, with whom Eustis 
 had spoken last. Wilkinson had met Eustis 
 about twelve o'clock the night of his death, as 
 he himself was coming out of the Varieties Thea 
 tre with the crowd. Eustis was hurrying along 
 through a light fall of snow, bareheaded and half 
 wild with drink. 
 
 " For God's sake, Henry, lend me five dollars ! " 
 he had said. "I expect my wife and four chil 
 dren in by the stage to-morrow night, and I 
 
 118 
 
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 119 
 
 haven't so much as a roof to put over their 
 heads." 
 
 " That wife-and-children game is about played, 
 Frank," had been Wilkinson's reply. Eustis had 
 been borrowing money for six months or more 
 on the strength of the imminent arrival of his 
 family. 
 
 " They are coming this time, by God ! But 
 they won't find me here ! " were his last words as 
 he ran on down the street, slipping and falling at 
 last in the soft snow. 
 
 Wilkinson had pulled him up, set him on his 
 feet, brushed the snow from his hair and neck, 
 and, putting his own hat on his head, had left 
 him staring stupidly before him. 
 
 He was found the next morning stiff and cold, 
 with his head on the curb-stone and a bullet-hole 
 in the side of it. 
 
 The night following that morning Ellen Eustis 
 arrived with her children. There were but three. 
 To the last Eustis had not been able to help lying 
 a little in an unimportant way. His wife had 
 come by stage, two hundred miles across the 
 northern desert. She had waited, in the last 
 poor refuge where he had left her, for Eustis to 
 return or send for her. His letters spoke of his 
 
120 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 success in the new camp, but there were no inclo 
 sures of money and no summons for her to join 
 him and share his success. At last, when her 
 means of support were nearly exhausted, she had 
 taken what money remained to her and desper 
 ately followed her husband, to what end she knew 
 not, except that it could not be worse than the one 
 she had in view. The man who probably saved her 
 from dying on that journey was Colonel William 
 Harkins. As an experienced traveller, the Colonel 
 had secured for himself the entire back seat of 
 the coach, and with lunch-basket, rugs, seal-skin 
 coat, cigars, and paper novels, had expected to 
 make the trip across the frozen alkali plains in 
 comparative comfort. 
 
 It was just his luck, so he commiserated himself 
 as he surveyed his fellow-passengers, to find in 
 front of him, occupying the middle seat, a wan- 
 cheeked young mother with three pretty, thinly- 
 clad children, vis-a-vis with two Chinamen and a 
 Jew " drummer," riding on the forward seat. 
 
 The first day's ride was not half over before 
 Harkins had " borrowed " two of the children, 
 and was telling them stories and romping with 
 them, while the mother from time to time looked 
 back and smiled at the sound of their laughter. 
 
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 121 
 
 When the boy grew sleepy he helped her to make 
 a bed for him on the seat beside her, and arranged 
 his travelling-bag under her feet, that she might 
 the more easily support the child's head in her 
 lap. At the squalid meal station he thrust her 
 into the warmest corner by the fire, and bribed, 
 from the meagre hospitality of the place, the best 
 it could furnish for her comfort. He led the way 
 back to the stage with the youngster on his shoul 
 der, and, putting him into his mother's arms, beg 
 ged her to keep his seat for him while he walked 
 on a mile or so for exercise. Not to be burdened 
 with it while walking, he threw off his fur coat 
 and asked permission to wrap her and the little 
 fellow in it, until he should need it again. For 
 the little fellow's sake she allowed him to do so. 
 Laughingly he cuddled the two little girls in his 
 rugs, and bidding them let no one into his seat 
 in his absence, trudged on ahead of the stage. 
 When it overtook him he climbed up beside the 
 driver and sat there smoking until it grew dusk. 
 Looking back into the coach, he saw that the 
 mother and children were asleep, snugly wrapped 
 
 in his rugs and furs. He called himself a d 
 
 fool, took something to keep out the cold, and 
 crawling down into the boot under the driver's 
 
122 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 blankets, slept there all night on the mail bags. 
 The mother began the next day with an effort at 
 independence, but was soon too much exhausted 
 by the unavoidable hardships of the journey and 
 her children's constant claims on her strength to 
 resist the ingenious and persistent kindness of 
 her fellow-traveller. The Colonel's luxuries were 
 her necessities. He diverted them to her use 
 with that understanding, cheerfully insisted on 
 by him, and helplessly admitted by herself. 
 
 The stage office was buzzing with talk of the 
 latest camp tragedy on the evening of the travel 
 lers' arrival. 
 
 " Oh, it is only some poor cuss got cleaned out 
 at faro, and shot himself last night," Harkins re 
 plied to the young mother's inquiries, as she sat 
 with her children around her in a corner of the 
 crowded room. " What did you say your hus 
 band's first name was, Mrs. Eustis? Frank? 
 Well, see here ! You'd better get a room here to 
 night. He didn't get your telegram most likely. 
 I don't seem to see him anywheres about. We'll 
 look him up first thing in the morning. Those 
 children ought to have something to eat. I'll 
 have something sent up to you. Now don't you 
 worry, will you? You leave me to find your hus- 
 
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 123 
 
 band." So, talking rapidly, he hurried her away 
 from the merciless gossip of the crowd, which 
 suspended its words long enough to stare at poor 
 Frank's widow as she passed out of the room. 
 
 Yes; it was just his luck that the husband of 
 his pretty, pale fellow-traveller should be the 
 dead man whom the Masons were to bury to 
 morrow ; that she should be nearing the time of 
 her woman's utmost need, penniless, homeless, 
 without a friend in the place. The next day he 
 took her to a cabin in the outskirts of the town. 
 It was her husband's house, he told her. This 
 was the furniture Eustis had bought in prepara 
 tion for her coming. These trifles of groceries 
 and what not he had ordered in her husband's 
 name ; it was all the same. Evidently he had not 
 been housekeeping himself and was a little hur 
 ried by her telegram. Then he had received it? 
 Where was he? What was he keeping from 
 her ? He met the question simply and squarely, 
 cursing his luck again that there was no one but 
 himself to meet it. He had occasion to call himself 
 a fool with profane emphasis more than once that 
 day, because he could not forget the new-made 
 widow and her forlorn little brood. He men 
 tioned her case to a lady friend of his, who 
 
124 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 promised to look after her should she need a 
 woman's help. Harkins's lady friend was one 
 of those who have lost all for themselves, yet 
 still have something to give to another's dis 
 tress. 
 
 Frank Eustis's wife had long ago learned how 
 cruel are the tender mercies of the feebly wicked. 
 It was only one more step in the long, downward 
 path she had taken beside him, the last step, 
 and it was characteristic of him that he had left 
 her to take it alone. 
 
 It is a ten-days' journey, including the stage 
 ride, from San Francisco to Deadwood, with the 
 roads in good condition. The roads were at 
 their worst, and Bodewin, starting immediately 
 on the news of Eustis's death, was two weeks on 
 the way. He reached Deadwood one evening 
 about ten o'clock, bruised, supperless, and stiff 
 with cold. The usual crowd was gathered in the 
 bar-room of the North-western Hotel. It seemed 
 as good a place as any to begin inquiries for his 
 sister. He was sure to find some of Eustis's 
 friends there. When Bodewin asked news of 
 Eustis's wife there was a dead silence in the 
 room. Colonel Harkins stepped out of the 
 crowd, and taking Bodewin apart, asked : 
 
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 125 
 
 " Who might you be, inquiring for Frank 
 Eustis's wife ? " 
 
 " I am Mrs. Eustis's brother," Bodewin re 
 plied. 
 
 " The devil you are ! " he remarked, in the 
 same low, deliberate tone. " You're a sweet 
 brother ! Why didn't you get in here two 
 weeks ago ? " 
 
 Bodewin did not make the mistake of resenting 
 this singular reception of a stranger. He was 
 familiar enough with frontier manners to under 
 stand it as some rude form of championship of his 
 sister, founded on his own- apparent or fancied 
 neglect. 
 
 " Never mind about two weeks ago," he re 
 plied. " Do you know where my sister is now ? " 
 
 Harkins looked him over again carefully before 
 he spoke. "Better take a drink and eat some 
 thing." 
 
 Bodewin declined to act on this suggestion, and 
 showed some restiveness under Harkins's pro 
 longed interest in him. 
 
 " Come on, then," the latter said, and led the 
 way into the street. Walking fast, without 
 speaking, they came to that low cabin in the 
 thinly built part of the town where the widow 
 
126 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 had found shelter. Harkins knocked at the door 
 softly, or so Bode win fancied. 
 
 " Is my sister not well ? " he asked. 
 
 "She is well," Harkins answered, solemnly, 
 "since two o'clock last night." 
 
 He left Bode win waiting at the door. After 
 some delay it was opened by a white-faced, red- 
 cheeked young woman, who stared at Bodewin, 
 and looked as if she might have simpered a little 
 if she had been less sleepy. 
 
 " Take a chair," she said. " Be you a friend of 
 hers ? " indicating with a motion of her hand the 
 closed door of an adjoining room. 
 
 "I am her brother," Bodewin replied. 
 
 " You don't say ! Where are you from? " 
 
 Bodewin mentioned the place. 
 
 " How long is it since you seen her ? " 
 
 " Nearly ten years." 
 
 " Well, I declare ! I guess she's changed some. 
 D'you want to see her to-night? She ain't laid 
 out yet. There wasn't anything of her own fit to 
 put on her. She could 'a' worn a white silk of 
 mine ; it's some soiled, but it might 'a' done with 
 lace over the front of the waist. But the Colonel 
 wouldn't hear to it. He's having a splendid cash 
 mere robe made for her." 
 
THE TENDER MEKCIES OF THE WICKED. 127 
 
 Bodewin got up and went to the door. He 
 leaned in the open doorway, with his face towards 
 the cool night, while a faintness that had over 
 come him passed. He felt the woman's hand on 
 his arm. " Here, drink this ! You look like you 
 was goin' to be sick." She held a tumbler half 
 full of whiskey towards him. He asked for water 
 and she dipped him a glassful from a pail beside 
 the door. 
 
 " You'd better not see her to-night," the 
 woman persisted, following him into the room 
 again, " though she don't look bad. She ain't 
 been sick long. Did you know there was a little 
 baby ? It's dead, too, poor thing ! I expect Ms 
 mother'll be glad it didn't live. There's enough 
 of 'em to leave for other folks to take care of." 
 
 "Whose mother?" Bodewin asked, lifting his 
 head to look at the speaker. 
 
 " Frank's mother. She's been sent for. Didn't 
 you know ? " 
 
 " Who sent for her ? " 
 
 " The Colonel did." 
 
 "Will you tell me who is the Colonel?" 
 
 " Ain't you acquainted with Colonel Bill Har- 
 kins? It was lucky for Frank's wife he didn't 
 stand on no ceremony. They rode in the same 
 
128 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 coach from the end of the track. Why, man, he 
 done everything for her ! Fed her and kep' her 
 warm, and tended her young ones, and she not fit 
 for travellin'. He's paid her way ever since she 
 got in. This here house he's rented for her, and 
 everything in it was bought with his money, 
 though he never let her know it. You don't 
 know the Colonel ? Well, it's about time you 
 did ! " 
 
 " Will you let me see my sister ? " Bodewin 
 said, rising. 
 
 He was taken into the cold inner chamber, 
 where on a clean white bed a sheet, smoothly 
 spread, covered without concealing a motionless 
 woman's form. There was the outline of the low 
 pillowed head, the hands unstirred upon the breast, 
 the small thin body sloping downwards, the little 
 feet that propped the sheet scarcely higher than a 
 child's. Bodewin knelt on the floor by the bed 
 side, smitten hard and deep in every spot that 
 anguish knows, crushed, broken utterly. And 
 the woman beside him whom no one wept for, 
 though she was more dead than death itself to all 
 that makes a woman's life hid with her thin 
 hands the roses that stared on her white cheeks, 
 and sobbed aloud. 
 
THE TENDER MEECIES OF THE WICKED. 129 
 
 Did she weep for herself only, as a child weeps 
 at the sight' of grief, or remembering that laughter 
 and jests of men, nevermore men's despairing ten 
 derness, and hopeless, hard-wrung tears, were her 
 portion forever ? 
 
 When he was alone with his dead, Bodewin 
 folded down the sheet and looked at what lay be 
 neath. He had known in part, and prophesied 
 according to his knowledge, but he was in the 
 presence now of that before which prophecies 
 shall fail and tongues shall cease and knowledge 
 shall vanish away. In the mercy of God it was 
 well with her at last, and with the child that lay 
 beside her in its long sleep that life had broken 
 only for a few feeble breaths. 
 
 Bodewin would have found it impossible to es 
 cape from the details of his sister's last hours, had 
 he wished to do so. They were in the mouths 
 of strangers, w^ho made them the medium of 
 intercourse unsought by him and unspeakably 
 harrowing. He knew, from various sources, the 
 full extent of his indebtedness to Colonel Har- 
 kins, through his sister. The conjunction was 
 torture to him. He tried in vain to get rid of the 
 pecuniary part of the burden at the least, but the 
 Colonel refused to overhaul his back accounts. 
 
130 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " It's all right," lie repeated. " I haven't spent 
 any money on her to hurt anybody, nothing 
 more than any man would do for a lady pas 
 senger." 
 
 The orphaned children had been taken home by 
 a respectable matron of the neighborhood, whose 
 offer of assistance had come too late to benefit the 
 mother. The possibility had never occurred to 
 Bodewin that his sister's children might be left 
 to any one's care but his own, in case of their 
 father's death or failure to provide for them. 
 But, between the day of the funeral and that of 
 Mrs. Eustis's arrival in the camp, he had time to 
 think over his sister's last expressed wish, and to 
 endeavor to reconcile himself to its provisions. 
 She had chosen to leave her children to her 
 husband's relations, ignoring her own blood. It 
 was but the finishing touch to the devoted consis 
 tency of her wifehood. They were his children 
 as well as hers ; though by his life he had forfeited 
 a father's right, in death she would not deprive 
 him of a father's place in his children's memories. 
 His own mother should exonerate him and atone 
 for his shortcomings in the new generation that 
 carries with it always the seed of the last one's 
 blighted hopes. 
 
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED. 131 
 
 Boclewin accepted his sister's decision, not 
 without a forlorn pride in her steadfastness. 
 But it left him objectless, purposeless, with his 
 atonement on his hands. He had waited long, 
 had kept the chambers of his heart empty and 
 ready for the guest who had failed him at the last 
 who he now knew had never meant to come. 
 He fell to questioning his own motives. There 
 had been smoke in the incense doubtless: there 
 had been blood upon the victim. He was now 
 but thirty years old, with that purity of color and 
 sensitiveness of expression which is said to be 
 nature's reward for a life of spiritual constancy ; 
 but he felt that he had parted with youth, and 
 that the " gains for all his losses " could be 
 quickly counted. 
 
 It remained for him now only to see Mrs. 
 Eustis and settle on his sister's children an 
 annuity from the money he had kept intact for 
 her use, and to say good-bye to Colonel Harkins. 
 He needed no one to tell him who Colonel Billy 
 Harkins was. It was only as " the Colonel " in a 
 land of gratuitous titles he had failed to recog 
 nize him. He would have parted with his right 
 hand if he could so have sundered the connection 
 between them. Did the Colonel perceive how it 
 
132 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 galled Bodewin, and privately enjoy his helpless 
 ness under the obligation ? When the two men 
 shook hands at parting, Bodewin asked Harkins 
 to remember that the man who had been as a 
 brother to his sister should be as a brother to him 
 in so far as he might be able to serve him or his 
 in the future. 
 
 " All right, brother Bodewin," Harkins replied, 
 cheerfully, renewing his hard grasp on Bodewin's 
 ! hand, and meeting his eyes with a look as hard as 
 his grasp. " I hope you will know your brother 
 when you see him again." 
 
 All this was now in the past three years. The 
 mercy Bodewin had been most alive to at the 
 time was the fact that his mother was no longer 
 capable of a great sorrow. The stretched chords 
 had ceased to vibrate. She lived in a painless 
 dream of the time before the war, when her 
 husband had been with her and her children had 
 not left her arms. All that had happened since 
 then could only be recalled from the outside, and 
 realized by her with an effort. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE VALLEY TRAIL. 
 
 MRS. CRAIG, having entered upon a scheme 
 of entertainment for her young guest, pursued it 
 with enthusiasm. Even the amusements of that 
 unrestful place and climate took on a certain 
 fierceness of energy. The mountains were a 
 perpetual challenge ; the valley, with its bright, 
 sinuous river, running out of sight among gray 
 willows, a perpetual invitation. Pleasure hurried 
 its pace at the brief summer's warning. Quick 
 pulses beat themselves out, and young life that 
 exulted in perilous effort sank before the prize 
 was won, and gave place to the next champion of 
 the hour. Josephine was half fascinated, half 
 troubled by the spirit of the place. Her morn 
 ings were gay, but her evenings were restless and 
 often mysteriously clouded. With Mrs. Craig as 
 chaperon and Mr. Hillbury as guide, she had 
 climbed her peak, had gone down into her mine, 
 133 
 
134 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 had visited smelting furnaces by night and hy 
 draulic washings by day, had caught her trout 
 in the waters of the "Lake Fork," and had her 
 thrilling gallops in the valley. She had talked 
 and laughed more than ever in her life before, and 
 never had she been, perhaps, less soundly happy. 
 She had met Bodewin constantly, but their ac 
 quaintance, which had burst the bud with such a 
 shock, seemed likely to wither half blown. Bode 
 win had relapsed unexpectedly from his stress of 
 confidence into a silence and backwardness which 
 to Josephine could only signify some decided 
 change in his feelings towards herself. Not to 
 seem to remind him of his former peremptory 
 claim on her sympathy, she carefully avoided any 
 allusion to the day of their long argument on the 
 rocks ; nor did Bodewin ever refer to it. They 
 were not often alone together, but when they 
 'were, Bodewin found it more difficult than he 
 would have believed to tell his story to this young 
 girl. There was an appalling egotism about it. 
 In one way it would be like telling it to a summer 
 morning. He and his troubles would rest almost 
 as lightly on her consciousness, so he reflected ; 
 but the morning did not fix such disturbing eyes 
 upon one's face when appealed to. 
 
THE VALLEY TRAIL. 135 
 
 One opportunity after another he let slip, until 
 a day came which found him again lounging along 
 in his saddle at Josephine's side. They were rid 
 ing in the valley with twenty miles of unbroken 
 turf before them, and not a human creature or 
 habitation in sight. Beyond the next long swell 
 there was a milk ranch where they were to wait 
 for Mr. Newbold and Mrs. Craig, but that was yet 
 three miles away. A wind, steady and soft, blow 
 ing up through the great gate of the mountains, 
 ruffled the wild grasses on either side the trail. 
 The river showed, in sunny, pebbly reaches, 
 between the pale willows turning silvery in the 
 breeze. The snow-born Arethusa was not swifter- 
 footed or more musical than this unwritten, un 
 sung Arkansas of the high valleys, not a day's 
 journey from its cradle. They had galloped until 
 their blood was up ; they had paced side by side 
 in silence till it had subsided into the warmth 
 that is just enough to give a man daring for a 
 difficult topic of conversation. Bodewin found 
 that he needed all his courage. The summer- 
 morning theory was all very well, but when, at 
 the first grave accent in his voice, Josephine 
 turned upon him that beautiful dark regard he 
 feared and yet longed to meet, his heart grew 
 
136 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 weak within him. He told his story badly, touch 
 ing reluctantly on the points where he was sorest, 
 omitting parts of it altogether, and in his dread 
 of overstatement consciously making the worst of 
 his case. 
 
 "You understand," he concluded awkwardly, 
 "that when I surveyed Harkins's two claims it 
 was not a business transaction. He did not em 
 ploy me. I am not a surveyor of mineral claims. 
 Harkins's discovery was one of the first in the 
 camp, and at that time there was riot an accred 
 ited surveyor within a hundred miles. I offered 
 it as the first service it came in my way to do for 
 [him the first instalment 011 my debt. You see 
 what a thing it would be to use it against him in 
 court the record of this affair between us not 
 of business, but of honor, to defeat him by 
 means of it. It would be like trapping him in 
 the name of my boasted gratitude. I would 
 rather be shot than do it." 
 
 " Still, I think you will do it," Josephine said. 
 
 "Would you mind telling me why you think 
 so?" 
 
 "Because if you had been satisfied not to do it, 
 those words of mine would have been forgotten 
 as soon as they were spoken." 
 
THE VALLEY TRAIL. 137 
 
 " I never said I was satisfied not to do it, but 
 that is a very different thing from doing it." 
 
 Josephine was silent. 
 
 "Many things," Bodewin continued, "which 
 are purely matters of private business get abroad 
 in a place like this. Harkins knows I have once 
 positively refused to testify against him. He also 
 knows that I have since been offered in set terms 
 a large sum of money by the parties who wish me 
 to do so." 
 
 Josephine blushed painfully at these words, but 
 Bodewin went on without perceiving her embar 
 rassment. 
 
 "Stating the situation roughly as a man like 
 Harkins would see it, what motive do you think 
 he would be likely to impute to me were I now to 
 change my mind? Would he not think I had 
 consented to do for money what I had refused to 
 do from an honorable motive ? " 
 
 " Would he think you had been bribed ? " 
 asked Josephine. 
 
 Bodewin suddenly remembered that he was on 
 dangerous ground. It was so difficult to keep the 
 fact of Josephine's antecedents in view. He 
 avoided the question. 
 
 " Theoretically, of course, Harkins's opinion of 
 
138 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 my motives is of no consequence, but actually I 
 cannot afford to disgust him with me while he has 
 this hold upon me. He is capable of anything. 
 Chivalrous as he was to my sister in her extrem 
 ity, the heart of a gentleman is not in him, or in 
 any of his kind. He would spare no man or 
 woman, living or dead, to reach me, if he believed 
 I had betrayed him. I cannot sacrifice my sister's 
 name even to truth and justice." 
 
 " Do the dead require more of us than the liv 
 ing ? I am sure no living sister could endure that 
 her brother should be hampered in his public 
 duties by his love for her." 
 
 "You have quite the Roman idea of the 
 comparative insignificance of the family claim," 
 said Bodewin, smiling rather bitterly ; " but 
 you have a right to it. You come of heroic 
 blood." 
 
 Josephine turned upon him. "What do you 
 know of my blood ? " she asked, searching his 
 face for the touch of irony she suspected him of. 
 She was restive on the 'point of blood from a mix 
 ture of pride and uneasiness : pride in the strain 
 on her mother's side, and vague distrust of that 
 on her father's, with which she found herself year 
 by year less in sympathy. 
 
THE VALLEY TKAIL. 139 
 
 Bodewin hastened to repair his blunder. "I 
 beg your pardon. The story of your grand 
 father's martyrdom has become a part of history, 
 you must remember." 
 
 " Yes," said the girl, softening in her quick, re 
 sponsive way, "the men of my mother's family 
 thought they were truest to their families when 
 they were truest to their own best beliefs. But 
 perhaps you think my grandfather should have 
 yielded everything for the sake of security for his 
 wife and children ? " 
 
 " Oh, now you are too hard upon me ! At the 
 worst, if Harkins were to carry all before him 
 through my poltroonery, it would not be a na 
 tional crime." 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't it ? Isn't appropriating other 
 people's goods becoming a national crime ? Then 
 we cannot believe our own prophets." Josephine 
 was too young in controversy to have learned to 
 keep the excitement of it out of her voice. She 
 forgot her resolution to abstain from trying to 
 influence Bodewin's decision. She was passion 
 ately protesting against it with her eyes and burn 
 ing cheeks as well as with her words. 
 
 " Are you sure it is the family claim after all ; 
 that is hindering you ? " she asked finally. " Is it 
 
140 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 not your own pride ? Are you not trying to cancel 
 a private debt by neglecting a public duty ? " 
 
 Bodewiii's answer came slowly. He had asked 
 himself a hundred times why he should sacrifice 
 to the protection of another man's property that 
 which was much dearer to him than any tangible 
 possessions of his own. But between these two 
 the question had never been for one moment a 
 question of property ; each would have scorned in 
 the other the first intimation that it could be. 
 Bodewin only said, " What impossible beings you 
 must think us ! If you knew men better, you 
 would not expect so much of us." 
 
 " Do you call it so much ? I shall never expect 
 less never of any man I believe in ! " 
 
 The ranch was now in sight, and they rode the 
 rest of the way in silence. Not one of the family, 
 except the cows, was at home, nor were Mrs. 
 Craig and Mr. Newbold anywhere to be seen. A 
 paper pinned on the door bore an explanation in 
 Mrs. Craig's handwriting. 
 
 "Ranchman's wife at the railroad camp. We 
 are going on there to see her about the eggs. 
 Wait for us or not, as you please." 
 
 The railroad camp was a mile distant up the 
 valley. They decided to wait. Bodewin dis- 
 
THE VALLEY TRAIL. 141 
 
 mounted, and lifted Josephine from her saddle. 
 She found a seat on a long bench against the side 
 wall of the larger cabin; while Bodewin looked 
 about the premises to make sure no one was at 
 home. Two long, low cabins, of unhewn logs, 
 built about four feet apart, were united by their 
 roofs. The covered way between framed a view 
 of the valley in the slanting light of afternoon. 
 Through the uncurtained windows it could be 
 seen that one of the cabins was used for a dwell 
 ing and the other for granary, barn, stable, wood 
 shed, and other purposes. Its interior was crammed 
 like a schoolboy's pocket, and was nearly as dark. 
 Absolutely, the place was deserted, except by the 
 cows, pensively chewing their cuds in the corral 
 behind the cabin. 
 
 Bodewin seated himself on the bench near Jose 
 phine. He took off his soft felt hat, and crushed 
 it on the angle of his knee. As he leaned forward 
 on his elbows, his profile strongly illumined in the 
 sun's level light, certain merits in his appearance 
 which had escaped Josephine's diffident observa 
 tion now struck her for the first time. His eyes, 
 that she had thought were black, proved to be a 
 dark hazel-gray. The wind loosened a lock of his 
 close-cut hair, brushed with unbecoming severity 
 
142 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 of outline, and blew it across his forehead. In 
 stantly he looked the younger and the better for 
 it. She noted the modelling of his bent head, the 
 delicacy of his complexion where his hat had 
 shaded it from the sun, the high, clear-cut lines of 
 his face. He looked like some keen-edged instru- 
 1 merit, fit for precise and subtle uses. He had not 
 found his true work as yet, that was evident ; and 
 Josephine vaguely wondered whether so efficient 
 an instrument carelessly handled might not be 
 dangerous to others, or itself get dulled or broken. 
 
 While they waited, the sun's red disk touched 
 the mountains ; it dropped out of sight ; the 
 mountains darkened against the after-glow that 
 spread broadly over the plain and flamed upward, 
 gilding the long cloud-islands that rested in the 
 upper region of the sky. 
 
 "Mr. Bodewin," said Josephine, after one of 
 those silences that often fell between these two 
 unconventional acquaintances, "why should you 
 feel that you alone are responsible for your sister's 
 marriage ? She had a mother as well as a brother ; 
 and you were very young." 
 
 " My mother was scarcely in the world that 
 summer. She lived with her dead. And she was 
 broken by " 
 
THE VALLEY TRAIL. 143 
 
 " Forgive me ! " Josephine interrupted. 
 
 " You do not hurt me. Say anything to me you 
 like. It helps me." 
 
 " I would like to say one thing more, if I may. 
 I am sure it would trouble your sister's rest if she 
 could hear you saying what you did just now 
 that she had a mortgage on your life for all. 
 you were worth, and that now a part of it had 
 fallen into base hands. Can any one hold a mort 
 gage on our lives except the Giver of life itself? 
 It seems to me you leave out God." 
 
 " Would you have me throw the consequences 
 of my carelessness upon Him ? " 
 
 " I would have you believe that your sister was 
 in His care as well as in yours." 
 
 " It would make a pagan of me if I could believe 
 God meant her life to be what we made it, among 
 as." 
 
 " I am afraid you are a pagan already." 
 
 "Very likely. And being a pagan, I am also a 
 coward." 
 
 Josephine hated to hear a man call himself a 
 coward, even for the sake of- being contradicted. 
 She hesitated, and then, smiling, said deliberately, 
 as if speaking by rote, 
 
 " ' I would not hear thine enemy say so.' " 
 
144 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Bodewin smiled too, rather sadly. 
 
 " The context made you say that ; but you do 
 not mean it." 
 
 " I can never tell how much I mean until I am 
 tried," she said, " but I think I mean it." 
 
 " What should you say to one who called me a 
 coward ? " 
 
 " I should say that if you were it could only be 
 as ' conscience doth make cowards of us all.' And 
 to myself I should add morbid conscience." 
 
 " You think I am morbid ? " 
 
 " I hope you are ; for if your views of our 
 mutual accountability are true, then life is not 
 difficult it is impossible." 
 
 " Well, is it not impossible ? Life, as it was 
 meant to be?" 
 
 "I do not know how it was meant to be. I be 
 lieve that it is, that it will be, full of happiness 
 I do not mean pleasure to those who hunger 
 and thirst after righteousness, even if they make 
 terrible, terrible mistakes. I cannot believe in 
 those fatalities which make one man the destroyer 
 of another, whether he wills it or not. The inten 
 tion must count for something." 
 
 " We cannot live by our intentions," said Bode 
 win. " I think I see your father and Mrs. Craig 
 
THE VALLEY TRAIL. 145 
 
 coming. They are a long way off ; do you see ? 
 Where the trail cuts in towards Bird's Eye 
 Canon." 
 
 " I wish they had come before I began to talk 
 of things that are beyond me," sighed Josephine. 
 
 " There is nothing beyond you nothing worth 
 mentioning." 
 
 Whenever Bode win said anything to Josephine 
 that she might have resented as flattering in its 
 tendency, he did it with a dismal reluctance which 
 made it a thing to pity him for. 
 
 He was getting restive under a deepening sense 
 of her truth and sweetness. He would have been 
 glad to find a flaw in her another flaw ; for 
 since he had made her atone to the uttermost for 
 that slip with which their acquaintance had begun, 
 she had been steadily triumphing in his thoughts. 
 
 He had long ceased to be even amused at their 
 relations to each other with reference to the trial 
 Mr. Newbold's daughter helping her father to 
 his most important witness. He would have felt 
 like choking any man who dared to hint at the 
 convenience of such an arrangement for Mr. New- 
 bold. He adored her unconscious sincerity that 
 ignored the world and feared no misconception ; and 
 he felt the tribute to his own manhood it so simply 
 
146 JOHN BODEWTN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 yet subtly conveyed. He was able to speak of 
 her to Hillbury that evening with calmness, how 
 ever, and to agree with his friend in his favorite 
 theory, that a woman must have a certain amount 
 of self-consciousness to escape being crude. Hill- 
 bury was apt to take a cool, disparaging tone in 
 speaking of the average pretty woman, but Bode- 
 win could not believe in Hillbury's entire indiffer 
 ence to a girl he himself found so charming. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 
 
 BODEWIN had left his horse at the stable, and 
 had overtaken Hillbury as the latter was strolling 
 along the ditch-walk, reading his letters on his 
 way back to camp. Hillbury put up the letters 
 as Bodewin fell into step beside him. 
 
 ."I tried to find you this afternoon, Bodewin. 
 Where are your rooms now ? " 
 
 "Rooms! My room is in the Parker building, 
 second story, front, if you want to see me on 
 business." 
 
 " You have more than one room there." 
 
 " Well, if you count a man's bedroom." 
 
 "I wanted to tell you you've won your cigars." 
 
 "What cigars?" 
 
 "Have you forgotten our bet about Craig's 
 cabin?" 
 
 "Craig's cabin?" 
 
 " The cabin in the Lake woods ; the girl-and-pup 
 story." 
 
 147 
 
148 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Bodewin's face changed slightly as he replied, 
 " Yes, I remember." 
 
 The mention of the Lake woods called up other 
 impressions more vivid than those connected with 
 Craig's adventure. 
 
 " You were right about Craig ; there is no cabin 
 there." 
 
 "What did I say about Craig?" 
 
 "You said the little boy lied; and apparently 
 he did." 
 
 After a pause Bodewin said, " Craig may have 
 lied on occasion, but he is not a liar. If I ever 
 said that he was, or implied it, I lied myself." 
 
 " Well, the cabin cannot be found. I'll send 
 the cigars around to-morrow." 
 
 " I won't take them ; do you understand ? I 
 don't want to smoke a whole box of cigars flavored 
 with a stupid fiction of Craig's. I'd rather borrow 
 them of you one at a time," he added, as Hillbury 
 looked grave, " and no thanks to Craig." 
 
 "You still insist there is no cabin?" Hillbury 
 persisted. 
 
 "Hang the cabin!" 
 
 His words, few as they had been, convinced 
 Hillbury that Bodewin was himself surprised that 
 the cabin could not be found. His pretended in- 
 
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 149 
 
 credulity, he believed, must have been pure reck 
 lessness, founded on his dislike to everything 
 Craig did, or the joking of a tired and hungry 
 man ; or else, for some reason impossible to guess, 
 Bodewin had not been perfectly frank. The im 
 pression was so strong that Hillbury resolved to 
 make one more search for evidence of the truth of 
 Craig's story. 
 
 The outer door of Bodewin's office in the Parker 
 building had a slit in it, and a box nailed on the 
 inner panel for the convenience of callers in his 
 absence. When he returned to his lodgings that 
 evening, Bodewin, after striking a light, examined 
 this box. It contained but one letter, from a most 
 unattractive correspondent, to judge by the super 
 scription. The envelope bore no postmark ; the 
 letter was undated. It read as follows : 
 
 "Do not go on the witness stand unprotected. Colonel Har- 
 kins swears that if you testify against him you shall not leave 
 the court-room alive. A FEIEND." 
 
 Bodewin sent a letter to Craig that night, short 
 but carefully worded. 
 
 His testimony, he wrote, in the case between 
 the Eagle Bird and Uinta mines was at the service 
 of the Eagle Bird. He would prefer to give it in 
 response to a subpoena in due form. He would 
 
150 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 take his expenses and the usual witness-fee, noth 
 ing more, and the question of money need not be 
 referred to again in regard to this case ; and he 
 was Mr. Craig's respectfully. This letter Mr. 
 Craig handed to Mr. Newbold the next day as 
 they sat together on the Eagle Bird piazza, wait 
 ing to see the superintendent on a small matter 
 connected with the lawsuit, a matter which 
 made it necessary for Sammis to look up some old 
 maps of the mine. Josephine had gone into the 
 house to see Mrs. Sammis's baby. She had found 
 him in the dining-room, seated in his high-chair 
 at a table where his mother was engaged in cut 
 ting out the overskirt of a new grenadine dress. 
 Josephine was consulted as to the proper length to 
 allow for draping, and as baby gave more of his 
 assistance than was desirable, making dashes at 
 the paper patterns, and side pulls at the stuff 
 spread smoothly on the table, Josephine seized 
 him out of his chair and bore him off into the 
 front room, where she made him happy in a way 
 he knew well. She placed him on her knee, fac 
 ing her, at arm's length, and, with her smiling 
 eyes fixed on his solemn ones, began softly jogging 
 him up and down to the recitative, " This is the 
 way the lady rides," etc. As the pace grew 
 
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 151 
 
 better, his fat shoulders began to shake and the 
 dimples to show round the deep-sunk corners of 
 his mouth ; but when it came to " Hobble-de-gee 
 the farmer goes!" his content knew no bounds. 
 Now they began once more with " This is the way 
 the lady rides, nimble namble, nimble namble," 
 and the gait was so easy and the song so low to 
 match it, that Josephine could hear her father's 
 voice speaking to Mr. Craig in the porch outside. 
 The shutters were drawn together, but the win 
 dows were open. 
 
 " Well, what did I tell you ? It has come out 
 just as I said it would ! " 
 
 " How was that, Mr. Newbold ? " 
 
 " Don't you remember what I said to you down 
 there in your office? " 
 
 "About Bodewin? You said, if I'm not mis 
 taken, that his case called for a woman's influ 
 ence ; wasn't that it ? " 
 
 " Well, what I meant was the social thing, you 
 know. Of course, you can't have society without 
 women. He has seen a good deal of us lately, 
 and naturally he takes more interest in the case. 
 He's reconsidered the matter from a more human 
 point of view." 
 
 " He has not seen much of me lately. He has 
 
152 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 seen a good deal of my wife and of your daughter. 
 Is that the point of view you call human ? " 
 
 " You lawyers are the worst fellows to turn a 
 man's words wrong side out. You know very 
 well what I mean. Bodewin has come round 
 most unexpectedly to you, but not to me. I knew 
 he was coming. The rides and the talks and the 
 little dinners have done the business, and now 
 you can come in with the majesty of the law and 
 claim the credit of it." 
 
 " To whom is the credit due, do you think 
 your daughter or my wife ? " 
 
 " Oh, come, Craig ! I'm not going to quarrel 
 with you not until after the trial." 
 
 "There will not be any trial with me for your 
 counsel, Mr. Newbold, unless you drop that little 
 theory of yours, pretty sudden too ! You can 
 give all the credit you like to your daughter, I 
 beg her pardon, and you ought to too, but I 
 want you to understand, before we go any further, 
 that my wife doesn't help me to win my cases." 
 
 "Good Lord, man! one would suppose " 
 Josephine sprang up, hardly conscious of the 
 heavy child in her arms, and carried him back to 
 the dining-room, where Mrs. Sammis was folding 
 up the breadths of her overskirt. 
 
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 153 
 
 "I do believe there is enough left for a 
 shoulder-cape," she said, without looking up, as 
 Josephine entered. "Don't you like those little 
 shirred capes ? " 
 
 " On some people yes," Josephine replied, 
 absently. 
 
 "If there wasn't enough to shir, I might put 
 some fringe around it, and trim it with passymen- 
 tery. Ain't you been tiring yourself out with 
 him ? You look real warm ! " She held out her 
 hands for the child. 
 
 " He doesn't tire me does he, monkins ? " 
 Josephine leaned her head against the baby's 
 clean white pinafore, put on over yesterday's 
 frock with especial reference to her visit. He 
 clasped the bent, dark head in his chubby arms, 
 patted it vigorously, and then pushed himself 
 away from her that he might peep down into her 
 face. Mrs. Sammis looked on with flattered re 
 gard. 
 
 " You've got a real way with babies ! " she said. 
 " For an only child yourself it's wonderful. I 
 guess you're one of the born mothers. You must 
 look out when it comes to marrying. When you 
 see a girl with blood in her for two, she's sure to 
 pick out a man that hasn't half enough for one, 
 
154 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 and nurse him the rest of her life, and be as proud 
 of him, like as not, as if he was her first-born, and 
 think he's got a terrible intellect." 
 
 Josephine, in her visits to the mine, had been in 
 the habit of using the Sammis baby as an inno 
 cent sort of buffer to ward off the mother's atten 
 tions. That day she kept the child in her arms, 
 petting him and recklessly encouraging his small 
 tyrannies, until the horses were brought round 
 and her father called to her from the piazza that 
 it was time to go. 
 
 Nothing in all her life had ever hurt her like 
 those words of his she had overheard. Josephine 
 had ever been too ready to flame out on slight 
 provocation, and dispute the paternal judgment 
 and sometimes the paternal authority on trifling 
 points, but this issue involved differences too vital 
 even for discussion. She could not open the sub 
 ject to her father without showing him her scorn 
 for his point of view. All the satisfaction she 
 might have had in Bodewin's conversion was 
 blighted. Reviewing his several conversations 
 with her as she was able to recall them, she fan 
 cied she could read her own humiliation in his 
 cold surprise, his mocking appeal, his abrupt and 
 intimate demand. The first slip had been hers, 
 
AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 155 
 
 but she was now ready to believe her father had 
 done his best to put her in the way of making it. 
 He who should have saved her from her faults 
 had been in league with them against her was 
 openly exulting in their consequences, with an 
 indecency of suggestion which had disgusted 
 even Mr. Craig. The object of her soliloquy 
 was meanwhile comfortably riding behind her, 
 by the side of Mr. Craig, talking of future im 
 provements at the mine, to be begun as soon as 
 the trial was over. For now that Bodewin had 
 been won, Mr. Newbold, and his lawyer no less, 
 regarded the case as virtually decided in their 
 favor. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DEAD OR MISSING. 
 
 ME. NEWBOLD wondered a little that Jose 
 phine's interest in the trial should have so sud 
 denly cooled. But no doubt she was tired of the 
 subject; it had been presented to her somewhat 
 monotonously of late. She declined to go down 
 with him to Denver on the week of the trial, pre 
 ferring to stay at the mine with Mrs. Sammis. It 
 would not be an exciting visit, but Josephine 
 would have chosen to go back alone to Kansas 
 City rather than make one of the Eagle Bird 
 party on this conspicuous occasion. Mr. Newbold 
 had hired a light mountain-wagon and a team of 
 horses to carry his constituents over the range to 
 the end of the track in the safest and speediest 
 manner. He had also ordered the best breakfast 
 the Wiltsie House could furnish, to be served at 
 the mine, where the party were to meet on the 
 morning of the journey. 
 
 156 
 
DEAD OR MISSING. 157 
 
 Bodewin had been as good as his word when he 
 told Josephine that he would take no advantage 
 of her reluctant consideration of his difficulty. 
 She had not seconded her father's numerous invi 
 tations to him, and had met him only through 
 their mutual acquaintances, Mrs. Craig and Hill- 
 bury. One of Mrs. Craig's children had been ill, 
 and the outdoor gayeties of her planning had 
 ceased for a week before the date of the trial. 
 During this time Josephine had not seen Bode- 
 win. She would gladly have escaped the break 
 fast, but her father had made a point of her pre 
 siding. However, to her great relief, Bodewin 
 was not among the guests. At the last moment he 
 had resigned his seat in the wagon and announced 
 that he would make the pass on horseback. 
 
 "We shall see you to-morrow at breakfast?" 
 Mr. Newbold had asked, and Bodewin had 
 begged to be excused, as he was not an early 
 breakfaster and would not need to start as soon 
 as the team, by an hour at least. He came loiter 
 ing up the trail a few minutes after the Eagle 
 Bird party had set off. He had left his water 
 proof coat in Sammis's office the last time he had 
 gone through the mine, he said, and had stopped 
 for it on his way. 
 
158 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Josephine was sitting on the steps of the high 
 porch as he rode up. He had seen her, and it 
 was too late for her to escape into the house. 
 She smiled collectedly enough and said good- 
 morning, while Mrs. Sammis came from the end 
 of the porch, holding a leaky watering-pot at 
 arm's length, to ask if he would not change his 
 mind and have some breakfast. He had had a 
 cup of coffee before leaving the camp, he thanked 
 her, but would she kindly send some one for that 
 coat? The office was locked and 'Sammis had 
 taken the key, but Mrs. Sammis thought she 
 knew where there was another key that would fit. 
 She went into the house to find it, and Bodewin 
 seated himself on the steps below Josephine. 
 His first look at her, before a word had been 
 spoken, assured Josephine that she was safe at 
 least in his regard. But that did not take away 
 her trouble by any means. It might have been 
 better that he should despise her. No one could 
 have guessed from Josephine's appearance that 
 she was unhappy, still less humiliated, about any 
 thing. Bodewin was looking at her timidly ; he 
 had never seen her before in a white dress. It 
 was only a white flannel, made in the simplest 
 way, but a garment of white samite could not 
 
DEAD OK MISSING. 159 
 
 have been more mystic and wonderful to Bode- 
 wiii's inexperienced eyes. It defined her fair 
 arms and shoulders and clung in some mysterious 
 way about her hips, sweeping downward in long 
 soft folds over the pleatirigs that huddled about 
 her feet. Bodewin could not venture to more 
 than glance at her as she sat on the steps above 
 him. It was scarcely possible to avoid some refer 
 ence to the object of his journey. 
 
 " Are you surprised at my going, after all I said 
 to you that last time ? " he asked. 
 
 ' No ; I knew then, in spite of what you said, 
 that you would go." 
 
 " Thank you for your faith in me. I ought to 
 be uncommonly happy, I suppose. True happi 
 ness consists in doing what is disagreeable, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 Now that Bodewin had begun to talk in this 
 safe, artificial strain, Josephine's courage returned. 
 
 "Perhaps so," she said, "if you do it for the 
 sake of something better than happiness." 
 
 "You are the most exacting young moralist! 
 Isn't it enough that you have got me on the 
 right track at last, without asking for my pass 
 port?" 
 
 Josephine's face turned scarlet. 
 
160 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " I have had nothing to do with the track that 
 you are on." 
 
 " Am I not your witness ? " 
 
 " You know that you are not. Remember, the 
 condition of my listening to you was that you 
 should not make it personal." 
 
 "You repudiate me altogether now that I am 
 doing what you wished me to do. You don't deny 
 that you do wish it? " 
 
 "If it is merely a question of what I or any 
 one else wishes you to do, you had better not 
 do it." 
 
 Poor Josephine was insisting all the more stren 
 uously on the dignity of her position, now that 
 she herself had lost all faith in it ; and Bodewin 
 was irritated by this display of rectitude, when he 
 was longing for something less comfortless to a 
 man starting on a journey attended by risks known 
 to no one but himself. 
 
 "Such very abstract views of duty as yours 
 
 \ I 
 
 U strike me as a little inhuman," he said, "to 
 adore a man's duty and yet spurn him for doing 
 'it." 
 
 "I do not spurn you; neither do I intend to 
 applaud you." 
 
 " I don't ask you to ; I ask only a kind word of 
 
DEAD OR MISSING. 161 
 
 good-bye, and some little recognition of the fact 
 that I am going on your errand. That is very 
 weak of me, perhaps." 
 
 " But you are not going on my errand. What 
 right have I to send you on my errands, or you 
 to go?" 
 
 " I might go on your errand without your send 
 ing me." 
 
 Josephine shook her head. " How can you play 
 with a serious decision like this, even for the sake 
 of teasing ? " 
 
 " Why should it tease you ? I should be glad 
 to relieve you from that horror you seem to have 
 of any complicity in my acts ; but I hardly think 
 I should be riding over the range to-day if you 
 had not challenged my right to do as I pleased." 
 
 Since there was no denying that his motives 
 were mixed, Bode win was resolved to get what 
 comfort he could out of the mixture. He wished 
 Josephine to feel that this act of his was in some 
 sort a bond between them, and she resisted the 
 acknowledgment he was forcing upon her, with 
 maidenly fierceness. 
 
 She stood up, facing him, obliging him to rise, 
 though he was in no hurry to go. He leaned 
 heavily on the balustrade, avoiding her eyes. 
 
162 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " Don't go," she said, more gently ; " don't give 
 your testimony from any motive lower than the 
 one which made you withhold it." 
 
 "Be satisfied," he said; "I am doing what is 
 right. I don't ask myself why I am doing it," 
 he lifted his heavy-lidded, passionate eyes to her 
 face, "and you must not ask me, because I might 
 tell you the truth." 
 
 He took off his hat and silently offered his 
 hand. Josephine let him hold hers a moment, 
 and they parted without looking at each other 
 again. As Bodewin was unhitching his horse Mrs. 
 Sammis appeared. 
 
 "You're not going without your coat, Mr. Bode 
 win ? " She came down the steps with it, apolo 
 gizing for having kept him waiting so long. " I 
 hope you won't have to ride too fast to make up 
 the time." 
 
 Bodewin assured her he had plenty of time. 
 He rolled up the coat into a snug bundle and 
 tied it securely with the leathern thongs attached 
 to the back of his saddle, swung himself on his 
 horse, and, lifting his hat to Mrs. Sammis, rode 
 away. 
 
 Twilight drew the curtains of sunset in the 
 valley. Night came on, and the Eagle Bird 
 
DEAD OR MISSING. 163 
 
 folded its murky wings in such rest as its cease 
 less subterranean life permitted. Josephine sat 
 on the porch steps. She had been alone nearly 
 all day, for, though nominally the guest of the 
 superintendent's wife, she saw very little of her 
 hostess. The superintendent had married, as in 
 small, isolated communities, the average man mar 
 ries, the woman he had seen most frequently. In 
 Sammis's case she had happened to be a garrulous 
 soul in an under-vitalized body. Mrs. Sammis 
 had stamped her feebleness with the force of a 
 fatality on her husband's life, his house, and his 
 children, suffering herself more than Sammis, per 
 haps, from this repetition of her own negative 
 personality. There was a dreary inefficiency 
 about the conduct of affairs in the household she 
 now found herself part of, that had already begun 
 to weigh upon Josephine like a trouble of her 
 own. 
 
 At the dump station below the hill a light had 
 shone since twilight. At intervals she heard the 
 hollow rolling of a car along the tramway. As 
 the sound ceased, a bolt rattled, and the torrent 
 of earth and stones crashed over the dump. The 
 car rolled back into the tunnel, and in the suc 
 ceeding silence the strokes of the engine from the 
 
164 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 shaft-house counted the hours to the change of 
 shifts. Presently a new sound caught Josephine's 
 attention the light, sharp click of a horse's 
 hoofs coming rapidly up the hill. She lost it for 
 an instant, then she heard it again, nearing faster 
 and now close at hand. By the main group of 
 buildings it stopped, and voices of men were heard 
 talking. 
 
 Mrs. Sammis came out on the porch, carrying 
 the baby, her apron turned up over its bare head. 
 She walked past Josephine to the end of the 
 porch, and called into the darkness : 
 
 " Whose horse is that ? " 
 
 There was no audible reply, and she repeated 
 the question. " Whose horse is that ? " 
 
 "Is anything the matter?" Josephine asked. 
 She too went to the end of the porch, and looked 
 and listened with Mrs. Sammis in the contagion 
 of vague alarm. 
 
 " I thought that horse coming up just now was 
 the bald-faced one Mr. Bodewin rode," Mrs. Sam- 
 mis said. 
 
 " Has Mr. Bodewin come lack f " 
 
 "It wasn't Bodewin rode him in. I saw 
 him plain enough coming up the hill. It 
 was that man from Lounsberry stables. I can't 
 
DEAD OK MISSING. 165 
 
 ever think of his name. He brings your father's 
 horses." 
 
 " But where is Mr. Bodewin ? " 
 
 " That's what I'd like to know, if I could get 
 anything out of them men ! " 
 
 " Let me take the baby, Mrs. Sammis." 
 
 The sleepy child began to scream when his 
 mother transferred him to Josephine's arms. She 
 carried him into the house, and walked up and 
 down the close entry with him, mechanically hush 
 ing his cries, while Mrs. Sammis ran out to the 
 stable to make inquiries. 
 
 "Oh, baby, baby, do hush! " Josephine almost 
 sobbed herself, trying to listen. 
 
 In a few moments Mrs. Sammis returned. The 
 baby was still screaming; and with a mother's 
 sententious sympathy she took her offspring into 
 her own arms and carried him into her bedroom, 
 where Josephine heard her singing her habitual 
 
 lullaby 
 
 " Safe in the arms of Jesus, 
 
 Safe on His gentle breast." 
 
 The measured creak of a rocking-chair contin 
 ued for some time after the singing had ceased. 
 Then Mrs. Sammis came out of the room, carrying 
 a smoky kerosene lamp in her hand. She placed 
 it in the centre of a table with a red printed cotton 
 
166 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 cover on it, re-arranged the books in little set piles 
 around the lamp, and finally sat down by Jose 
 phine at the window, sighing audibly and stroking 
 back her hair with her thin, moist, bleached-look- 
 ing hands. 
 
 " Well," she said, " they don't know what's gone 
 of him any more'n we do ! That bay horse of his 
 come in alone about seven o'clock, and walked 
 himself into the stable where he's kep', and that's 
 ^11 they know. They waited till the stage got in ; 
 but there wasn't any message from our folks. 
 They passed our team the other side of the sum 
 mit ; but they hadn't seen any sign of him either 
 side. He hadn't stopped at English George's, but 
 just at the foot of the pass, you rec'lect, when 
 you come in, that little gulch where the water 
 was, and right smart of grass? The woman says 
 she was just takin' some blackberry pies out of the 
 oven, one of them outdoor ovens, you've seen 
 'em, and he rode up and bought one of the pies, 
 and et it settin' on his horse, and took a big drink 
 of milk, and gave her a dollar. 'Twasn't more'n 
 three bits' worth. They sent up from the stable 
 to know if he changed his horse here this morning 
 before he started. You saw him tie that coat on 
 to his saddle, didn't you ? " 
 
DEAD OB MISSING. 167 
 
 " Yes," said Josephine. 
 
 " Well, they say the saddle came home bare." 
 
 "Bare?" 
 
 " There wasn't any coat or nothing tied fast to 
 it." 
 
 " What does that mean ? " 
 
 " It means it wasn't an accident." Mrs. Sammis 
 lowered her voice to give greater effect to her next 
 words. " They think, down to the camp, it's some 
 of the Uinta's work. The horse had been hit by 
 a bullet, and they say the mark of it showed it 
 come from behind. There is no tellin'," she con 
 tinued, after a pause, which brought no comment 
 from Josephine. " Some thinks he's just been 
 pi ay in' into their hands all along. He give 'em a 
 first-rate chance, goin' off alone like that. Sam- 
 mis has 'lowed all along that he was in with them." 
 
 Josephine rose, and went out on the porch. 
 The air was of an unusual softness. The stars 
 between the pine trunks seemed few and very far 
 away. She watched the light of a lantern swing 
 ing from the hand of the night foreman, who was 
 crossing the trodden space before the shaft-house, 
 and listened to the sluff, sluff, of his rubber boots, 
 as their loose tops rubbed together at every step. 
 The light at the dump station was eclipsed, and 
 
168 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 now again came the rattling of the bolt and the 
 plunging of the load over the dump. It fell into 
 the echoless silence of the wood like a stone in a 
 deep well. So had the news of the night fallen 
 into Josephine's heart. She heard Mrs. Sammis's 
 step in the hall, and turned to say : - 
 
 " Will you tell me as soon as you know any 
 thing more, whatever it is ? I want to know it." 
 " Why, of course ; why shouldn't you know it ?" 
 Why, indeed, Josephine repeated to herself, 
 should she be spared the knowledge of Bodewin's 
 fate? What was it to her but one more man 
 added to the list of the camp's missing, or dead, 
 or dishonored? 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ON THE ROAD TO THE PASS. 
 
 IT was nearly noon when Bodewin reached the 
 foot of the pass. He had left the ticklish places 
 on his road behind him the deep woods, the wet 
 stony hollows, the winding gulches with high 
 rocky walls that shut out the sun. The secluded 
 trail he had taken now met the stage road, where 
 passengers were frequent. The chances for an 
 adventure on that exposed highway were hardly 
 worth considering. Bodewin kept a quietly 
 watchful eye on each turn of the road or project 
 ing angle of rock, as a matter of habit, rather 
 than of special precaution. 
 
 As he slowly climbed the last half mile to the 
 summit, he heard some one shouting, and, looking 
 back, saw a man on a hard-ridden horse motioning 
 to him from a distance. He waited for the 
 stranger to overtake him. 
 
 "If your name is Bodewin, there's a man back 
 here in the timber has got some papers for you." 
 
 169 
 
170 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Bodewin looked hard at his fellow-traveller. 
 He was a man of about fifty, with a tall, stooping 
 figure, a foxy beard that was turning gray, and a 
 scar on the side of his thin nose that made his 
 eyes seem closer together. 
 
 " All right, boss ! " he said. " Take a good look 
 at me. It sounds like a lie, but it ain't." 
 
 " Where does your man say he's from ? " Bode 
 win asked. 
 
 "He came out from camp, just behind you. 
 Says he is one of the men from Lotmsberry's sta 
 bles. Some papers belongin' to a party named 
 Newbold got left at the Eagle Bird mine. The 
 women folks found 'em just after you'd gone. 
 The young lady there, Newbold's daughter, knew 
 they'd be wanted on the trial that's coming off to 
 morrow, and she chartered him to overtake you 
 with 'em. He promised her he wouldn't give 'em 
 into no hands only yourn." 
 
 " Well," said Bodewin, " what is he doing in the 
 timber?" 
 
 "Horse fell on him. He's all broke up. I 
 come along just after he was hurt, and he got 
 me to overtake you and git you to come back 
 for the papers. I told him you wouldn't come, 
 and to give me the papers. I might be all 
 
ON THE ROAD TO THE PASS. 171 
 
 right, he said, but he couldn't let 'em out of his 
 hands." 
 
 The ingenuousness of this speech was not borne 
 out by the speaker's countenance, but various 
 considerations were working on Bodewin during 
 the few seconds it took him to choose between the 
 risks of believing a false story and doubting a true 
 one. 
 
 "Are you goin' back?" the man inquired. 
 " Pm goin'. I want to git him into shape, so's he 
 can git back to camp." 
 
 " Hold on a minute. Where did you say this 
 
 man was?" 
 
 
 
 " Back here half a mile in the timber." 
 " All right," Bodewin said. " Go on. I'm with 
 you." 
 
 The stranger did not look back or wait for 
 Bodewin, but turned his horse's head down the 
 hill again. He turned off from the stage road 
 into the trail by which Bodewin had come. They 
 were soon among the trees the stunted pines 
 and spruces, straggling ahead of the close columns 
 of the main forest. Here Bodewin met with evi 
 dence confirmatory of his friend's story/ A gray 
 horse could plainly be seen a short distance ahead 
 of them, foraging for a bite by the wayside, while 
 
172 JOHN BODE WIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 near him in the sparse shade lay a man at full 
 length on the ground. Bode win thought he 
 could remember having seen such a light-gray 
 horse with white mane and tail at Lounsberry's 
 stables. He was sure he remembered the man's 
 face, when he came near enough to see it. He 
 |;was that dark, dull-eyed youth, partner of the 
 Irishman whom Bodewin had conversed with at 
 /his claim on the mountain. Bodewin was not 
 surprised to find the prospector, two weeks later, 
 a stableman. It was the way of the camp. 
 
 "You don't remember me, Mr. Bodewin," the 
 young fellow said, lifting his sullen black eyes to 
 Bodewin's face. " But I know you." He opened 
 his coat and took hold of some papers that showed, 
 projecting from an inside pocket. 
 
 " Here's the papers she told me to give you ; I 
 can't raise up." His face was darkly flushed, as 
 with pain. 
 
 " You don't need to get off, Mr. Bodewin," the 
 other man said. " I can hand 'em to you." 
 
 u No, you can't," the messenger objected. "I 
 promised her I'd give 'em into his hands or fetch 
 'em back to her; and I won't lie to her to save 
 
 him gettin' off his horse. G ! how my leg 
 
 hurts ! " 
 
ON THE EOAD TO THE PASS. 173 
 
 With his first unguarded impulse Bodewin 
 dropped from his saddle to the ground, and 
 stooped frankly and compassionately to receive 
 the papers ; and at the instant he stooped he felt 
 his pistol leaving his pistol-pocket. A hand had 
 withdrawn it from behind. It was the hand of 
 his ingenuous guide. Turning sharply as he 
 straightened himself, Bode win's head nearly 
 touched the muzzle of another revolver. 
 
 " Stop ! " a hard voice called. " If you move 
 you're a dead man." 
 
 Bodewin did not move. A second reason for 
 not moving had presented itself in the shape of a 
 pistol held against the other side of his head by 
 Miss Newbold's faithful messenger. One deep 
 and fervent curse escaped him, and then Bodewin 
 asked, " What do you want ? " 
 
 " We want you" the man with the scar replied. 
 "Will you come along with us, or do you want to 
 fight?" 
 
 " Fight ! " said Bodewin. " I've got a good 
 show, haven't I?" 
 
 " We're a little too soon for you, that's a fact. 
 Tie his hands, Tony." 
 
 " You needn't tie my hands," Bodewin expostu 
 lated. " I will go along all right." 
 
174 JOHN BODEWIN' s TESTIMONY. 
 
 "You'd better mean it, if you say so. We 
 don't want to have to hurt you." 
 
 "I don't intend to get hurt. What are you 
 going to do with me ? " 
 
 " We're goin' to keep you kind of quiet for a few 
 
 days. You won't have a bad time of it, if you're 
 
 peaceable. We'll have to cover your eyes, Mr. 
 
 I Bodewin. We don't want you to get too intimate 
 
 / with the road we're goin'. Hand me the rag, Tony." 
 
 , "Would you mind taking my handkerchief?" 
 
 Bodewin asked. 
 
 The man with the scar considerately made use 
 of Bode win's handkerchief to bind his eyes, in 
 stead of a degraded piece of calico which looked 
 like part of a woman's apron. 
 
 . " This horse will not lead," Bodewin said when 
 the party was mounted and ready to move ; "but 
 he will follow all right if I tell him to. One of 
 you can ride ahead and the other behind me. I 
 will promise not to make a break between here 
 and your camp." 
 
 " I'll take your word on that, boss." The elder 
 man had dropped his hard business tone for the 
 semi-confidential drawl he reserved for social 
 purposes. " Tony, you can lead off, and I'll close 
 up the percession." 
 
ON THE KOAD TO THE PASS. 175 
 
 " And you'll do the talkin'," Tony remarked. 
 
 " Well, if I don't talk I can't say nothin'," the 
 elder man retorted. 
 
 The procession moved on in single file, Bodewin, 
 disarmed and blindfolded, between his two captors. 
 He had not been in a moment's doubt as to the 
 author of this wayside pleasantry. The plan of 
 his capture, he was convinced, had originated in 
 a subtler brain than either of those selected to 
 carry it out. What chiefly hurt him was the 
 thought that his disappearance might be misun 
 derstood by his friends of the Eagle Bird. His 
 promise to appear at the trial had delayed the 
 serving of the subpoena; they might conclude, if 
 disposed to doubt his good faith, that he had 
 availed himself of this solitary ride to give them 
 the slip, even were it not planned for that 
 purpose. If he could but send some message 
 back! The thing seemed as little possible as to 
 escape himself. All that, however, could wait. 
 Deprived of eyesight, his remaining senses were 
 doubly on the alert to report each feature of the 
 road. By the sound of his horse's feet he knew 
 they were still on the trail. They followed it 
 but a short distance, perhaps from fear of meeting 
 other passengers, then, turning to the left, struck 
 
176 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 across a gravelly ridge. Bodewin recognized it as 
 one of those numerous lateral moraines making 
 lesser valleys at right angles to the great valley 
 of the Arkansas. The plan of march was not 
 adapted to conversation. Occasionally a voice 
 would admonish Bodewin: 
 
 " Down your head there, pardner ! Dodge that 
 tree limb"; "Watch out for them quaking asps"; 
 or " Mind that badger-hole on the up-hill side." 
 
 The ridge, inclining always toward the valley, 
 dipped suddenly, and the horses took the slide one 
 after another, carrying soil and stones with them. 
 Bodewin made no attempt to guide his horse. He 
 had trusted Baldy's feet and Baldy's eyes on 
 many a dark night and blind trail. At the foot 
 of the ridge they crossed a piece of timber, and 
 beyond it Bodewin could hear the horses' hoofs 
 sucking through the swampy bottom. Now they 
 were rustling past a willow thicket, now wading 
 into the coarse, bunchy grass of the valley pastur 
 age ; southward again, the soft valley wind in 
 their faces, the sun declining from the zenith 
 towards the west. Now into a gorge, grassy at 
 first and wet, then steep and stony, with a cool 
 ness as of rocks high and near. Bodewin was 
 positive they had not crossed the valley. The 
 
ON THE ROAD TO THE PASS. 177 
 
 plan was probably to wind him in and out 
 between those narrow divides which radiate from 
 each great peak downwards into the valley, until 
 he had become confused, then double on their 
 track and bring him to some spot not far from 
 the camp itself. Another reason for making such 
 a mystery of their route occurred to Bodewin. 
 His abductors no doubt were arranging matters 
 so that after his release he should not be able to 
 swear to the place where he had been detained. 
 
 The last hour of the ride was through uninter 
 rupted woods, and here no idea of their direction 
 could be had. They were not the burnt woods ; 
 the shade was close and dark, the horses' feet 
 sounded hollow on the muffled ground. 
 
 "In sight of camp, pardner," said the elder 
 guide. " You can pull off the blinders." 
 
 Bodewin took the handkerchief from his eyes 
 and looked about him with keen interest. He 
 was turning a new page of his experience, which 
 was likely to prove exciting, if not instructive. 
 The wood was in shadow. Only in the tree-tops 
 the sunlight lingered, letting fall a gleam here and 
 there, to burnish a trunk, or speckle with tawny 
 lights the dark-red forest floor. Beautiful and 
 solemn and peaceful as night itself, the pine 
 
178 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 woods stretched before him. Was not this a 
 better ending to a day's journey than the one he 
 had set out for ? the crowd on the platform at 
 the new railroad terminus, the noisy carload of 
 people, the train banging along the break-neck 
 grades of the Platte Canon, and the trial and the 
 witness-stand? The decision had been taken out 
 of his hands, and Harkins was getting even with 
 his debtor in a unique fashion of his own. Bode- 
 win's courage was of a deliberate and philosophic 
 kind. He was too indifferent to danger to 
 seek it, nor was he possessed by that necessity to 
 fight under any provocation which belongs to men 
 of the "game " variety. He was game in a some 
 what different sense. He had remained quiet 
 when he found himself disarmed, with a pistol at 
 each ear, not from fear of the pistols, but from an 
 objection to an illogical suicide. His blood had 
 been cool enough to let his mind work, and to 
 Bode win's mind to have invited death at such 
 hands, and in such a manner, would have been 
 supremely objectless and silly. Yet there was a 
 taint of moral poltroonery in him. It revealed 
 itself in the relief with which he welcomed the 
 utter irresponsibility of his situation. From a 
 man who had been morbidly conscious of his 
 
ON THE ROAD TO THE PASS. 179 
 
 responsibilities, he had become one who was sick 
 of the very word. He was almost glad to be 
 deprived of his rights for a time, that he might 
 enjoy a corresponding suspension of his duties. 
 He had got down now to the ground floor of 
 social ethics, where the law of self-preservation, 
 was uncomplicated by subtleties of mutual obli 
 gation. 
 
 " In sight of camp," the man with the scar had 
 announced and now the camp itself was close 
 at hand. Where had he known this place before? 
 The long-backed cabin, overtopped by the dump 
 of a deserted prospect-hole, the bench under the 
 projecting roof, the little corral. This was Craig's 
 cabin, beyond a doubt, even though Hillbury had 
 failed to find it. Bode win was charmed by the 
 sequence of events. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A MESSAGE TO THE CAMP. 
 
 THE three men dismounted at the door of the 
 cabin, leaving their horses standing. Bodewin 
 untied his blanket roll and rubber coat from the 
 back of his saddle, and tossed them on the bench 
 beside the door, while Tony, seated on the bench, 
 kept an eye upon him. The elder man, whom 
 Tony called Dad, had gone into the cabin. In a 
 few minutes he returned, laughing and shaking 
 his head. 
 
 Tony's look expressed sulky inquiry as to the 
 cause of his merriment. 
 
 "Babe's mad," he explained. "Says she won't 
 have no men folks round, inside there, till grub's 
 ready." 
 
 " What's she mad about now? " asked Tony. 
 
 " About this yer company we brought home," 
 
 said Dad, winking at Bodewin. "She 'lows she 
 
 don't take no hand in this kind of entertainment. 
 
 She'll give you enough to eat, though," he added. 
 
 180 
 
A MESSAGE TO THE CAMP. 181 
 
 "Why don't you go in there and make her 
 quit?" Tony suggested. 
 
 " Go in yourself, if you want to. I've learned 
 to let women folks alone when they are plumb 
 full o' mad." 
 
 Tony went to the door and tried to open it. It 
 was fastened from within. 
 
 " Babe ! " he called, " Oh, Babe ! Come out yer ! 
 Ain't ye 'shamed ! Give yau a dollar if she 
 don't come," he said to Bodewin parenthetically. 
 
 Bodewin laughed. 
 
 " Give you forty if she does ! " Dad jeered. 
 
 Tony continued calling and pounding until the 
 door on a sudden was violently thrown back and 
 Babe herself appeared on the threshold, fronting 
 the cool daylight, with a glow of firelight behind 
 her, which reddened the murky interior of the 
 cabin. 
 
 Babe was a tall, white-throated, full-bosomed 
 girl of seventeen, at this moment red with wrath, 
 her blue eyes big and dark under her low, flat, 
 white brow. Her skin was white as birch-wood 
 stripped of its bark, but under it were muscles as 
 tough as Tony's own. 
 
 " Who's callin' Babe round yer ? " 
 
 The words were flung out with a look intended 
 
182 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 for Tony. But Tony had retired as the door 
 opened, and the look fell hot from the stormy 
 blue eyes into Bodewin's cool gray ones, as he 
 leaned a little forward from his seat on the bench. 
 One look was enough. Babe retreated, banging 
 the door behind her. Dad and Tony burst into 
 loud laughter, Dad fairly shedding tears in his 
 excess of mirth. 
 
 " Babe wilted then, for sure ! " said Tony ; and 
 Dad, turning to Bodewin, who had remained per 
 fectly grave, apologized for his daughter. 
 
 "Babe's always skeere.d of strangers; she don't 
 mean no thin'. Here you, Tony, quit laughin' at 
 your sister, and go take care of them critters ! " 
 
 The two horses which were at home had 
 strayed off towards the corral, while Baldy, ob 
 servant of his master's movements, remained near 
 the cabin. Tony walked leisurely towards him, 
 and put out his hand to take his bridle-rein. 
 Baldy jumped away a few feet. Tony stepped 
 quickly after him and caught at the rein. Baldy 
 whirled off and let fly at Tony with his heels. 
 Bodewin smiled, and Dad looked interested. 
 
 "Stop your jumpin' and go to him quietlike 
 and speak to him," he suggested. 
 
 Tony replied with a scornful jerk of his head, 
 
A MESSAGE TO THE CAMP. 183 
 
 and made another rush for Baldy's rein, calling, 
 " Whoa, there ! " Baldy swerved, reared, tossing 
 his rein up in the air out of Tony's reach. 
 
 " That's right, Tony, cuss a little ; maybe that'll 
 git him." Dad chuckled and Bodewin laughed 
 outright. 
 
 " He can't catch that horse ; he won't let any 
 one catch him but me." 
 
 Tony heard Bodewin's remark. 
 
 " I'll bet, by , I can catch him ! " he said. 
 
 Returning to the cabin, he took down a coiled 
 lasso that hung within convenient reach by the 
 door. 
 
 Dad and Bodewin watched him in silence as he 
 adjusted the rope for a throw. Baldy had trotted 
 off a little way. As Tony ran towards him swing 
 ing the rope above his head, the horse stopped and 
 seemed to wait for the throw. The rope left 
 Tony's hand, the loop widened, and Baldy, stand 
 ing perfectly still, put his long white nose to the 
 sod. The lasso settled down upon his neck and 
 shoulders, and slid harmless to the ground. Baldy 
 gave one quick jump sideways, then walked away, 
 turning his sagacious eye backward towards his 
 master. 
 
 " Lawd in the mornin' ! " Dad exclaimed, smiting 
 
184 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 his knees with both hands, "but that horse has 
 got sense ! How'd you 1'arn him not to leave no 
 handle for the lass' to ketch on ? " 
 
 Tony made another run for the horse and an 
 other throw, but again Baldy was as a graven im 
 age, with his nose and all four feet touching the 
 ground. 
 
 Bodewin now stood up and called him to him. 
 Baldy came at the word and stood beside his mas 
 ter, with an imperturbable gravity and innocence 
 in his white-ey clashed eyes. Bodewin waited, 
 stroking Baldy 's nose, until Tony, panting and 
 swearing, had drawn near. Then he said, " Now 
 I'll show you another little thing he can do," and 
 giving Baldy's nose a shove with the palm of his 
 hand, he spoke the order quick and sharp : " Al 
 corral! Anda! Ve-te!" 
 
 As Baldy sprang forward Bodewin struck him 
 on the hip. The horse shot away down the slope 
 from the cabin. Dad looked on contentedly, 
 watching for the next manoeuvre ; but Tony, 
 already suspicious, was now raging, sure that 
 Bodewin had tricked them and that Baldy was off 
 for camp. The horse was nearly a hundred yards 
 away, going at full speed, when Tony fired at him 
 between the tree-trunks once and missed him; 
 
A MESSAGE TO THE CAMP. 185 
 
 twice he did not stop; a third shot would have 
 been useless. 
 
 Tony turned to Bodewin, with his smoking 
 pistol in his hand. 
 
 "That's your racket, is it? You've sent that 
 horse to town." 
 
 Bodewin looked white and ugly. 
 
 u He'll just tell them I got your papers, that's 
 all," he said. 
 
 u You oughtn't to V fired, Tony," said Dad. 
 " I believe you hit him. A bullet-hole won't look 
 well onto him." 
 
 "I wish to I'd killed him! They'll be 
 
 scourin' the whole country." 
 
 " You're mighty right." Then turning to Bode 
 win, Dad said, " Mr. Bodewin, you'll have to be 
 kep' pretty clost for a few days." 
 
 " All right," Bodewin replied. " By the way, 
 what am I to call you? You introduced yourself, 
 but you didn't mention your name." 
 
 "My name well it's Jim Jim Keesner." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Keesner." 
 
 The door opened, and Babe, still flustered, but 
 shy-eyed and lofty, called them in to supper. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 EARLY on the morning after Bodewin's disap 
 pearance a telegram from Mr. Craig was received 
 at the mine, asking news of Bodewin. Two men 
 had already set out from the camp to search the 
 trail for signs which might lead to some conclu 
 sion as to what had become of him. None were 
 found, nor was there evidence of any kind indicat 
 ing a struggle by the wayside. Various theories 
 were advanced as to Bodewin's fate, but the 
 general opinion in the camp, in view of his known 
 reluctance to appear on the trial, w T as what he 
 himself had expected it would be. The pistol- 
 mark on Baldy's hip was pronounced, by experts 
 in such matters, the work of a hand that had been 
 careful not to aim too well probably the hand 
 of Baldy's master. If Bodewin had been stopped 
 on the road by persons who had reasons for not 
 wishing their business with him to be known, 
 
 186 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 187 
 
 they would never have allowed his horse to 
 escape, especially with that mark upon him. So 
 said the men of experience. That any such 
 persons would have allowed the horse to get 
 beyond range of a dead-sure shot was too wild an 
 improbability altogether. Bodewin, no doubt, 
 was hiding out until after the trial, and had sent 
 Baldy home with a blood-stain on him to lead con 
 jecture astray. 
 
 In these days Josephine felt strongly drawn 
 towards Hillbury. She saw him frequently, but 
 he never spoke to her of Bodewin, even when the 
 latter's disappearance was the one topic in the 
 camp, and she believed that his silence, like her 
 own, covered a heartache to which words could 
 give no relief. Hillbury was no less drawn 
 towards Josephine. She was more beautiful than 
 ever, he thought. She had the look of one who was 
 suffering. He would have been glad to believe it 
 was not for Bodewin's sake from no reason 
 personal to himself, so he assured himself, 
 but from a lamentable suspicion, that cut him 
 very deep on the score of friendship, that Bodewin 
 was unworthy. Hillbury was not yet willing to 
 believe him so, but the doubt was in itself a 
 trouble. It was also a responsibility, for while he 
 
188 JOHN BODE WIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 harbored it he felt like a traitor to his friend ; yet 
 he could not free himself from it. 
 
 A few days before Bodewin took his ride up the 
 pass, Hillbury had made a second search for the 
 mysterious cabin. He had found it, and there 
 began his sadness. He had come upon it as 
 unexpectedly as if it had sprung up out of the 
 earth. Some accident of the location had the 
 curious effect to render it invisible from any 
 point of view that was not very near. There 
 was no one at home, or so Hillbury supposed. 
 Finding himself out of matches and in urgent 
 want of a smoke, he pushed open the door, after 
 the unceremonious fashion of the region, and 
 looked about within for what he required. He 
 had expected to find a match or two without any 
 trouble, then quietly to go his ways and pass on 
 his obligation to some other needy wayfarer. But 
 the matches were not in any of the usual places. 
 He found them at last in an Indian basket of 
 braided grasses, made in the shape of half a hollow 
 sphere, that rocked when he touched it, on the 
 corner of a high wooden shelf. Poking about in 
 it for a match with a buckskin glove on, he upset 
 it and spilled its contents on the floor, sewing 
 materials, a woman's thimble, the matches, an 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 189 
 
 imperfect pack of cards, one of them cut as for 
 the measure of a hem or tuck, and a photo 
 graph of John Bodewin! An old and faded 
 picture of him in his cavalry uniform, slim in 
 figure, with the boyish face fixed in that slightly 
 exaggerated look of determination which charac 
 terized the pictures of our young volunteers. 
 The mustache was faintly perceptible, the hair a 
 little longer than Bodewin's present cut, but it 
 was Bodewin without the shadow of a doubt. 
 Hillbury was touched at seeing the face of his 
 friend as he had known it fifteen years before ; it 
 sobered him with a rush of recollections; and 
 then came the cold conjecture, how should it be 
 there in the cabin which Bodewin had declared 
 was purely of Craig's invention? Hillbury hated 
 mysteries. He wished his friends' lives to be, 
 like his own, in no need of explanation or de 
 fence. Here was something to be accounted for. 
 While he stood musing, with the picture in his 
 hand, the outer door of the cabin was pushed 
 open, and a girl, bareheaded, carrying an, apronful 
 of pine chips, entered the room. Hillbury was 
 not as surprised to see her as she evidently was to 
 see him. He had recognized her at once as the 
 girl of Craig's adventure. He apologized for his 
 
190 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 intrusion. The girl had let fall her apron-load on 
 the hearth, and stood as if waiting for him to take 
 his departure. Her beauty corresponded to Craig's 
 description better than her manner. That "sweet, 
 stolid way " he had spoken of was not conspicu 
 ous to- Hillbury's notice. At that moment, cer 
 tainly, she looked neither sweet nor stolid, but 
 rather keenly and resentfully observant of her 
 visitor. There was in Hillbury's manner a cer 
 tain superiority, as a matter of course, which his 
 equals admitted and even liked, if he happened 
 to like them, but which his inferiors, socially 
 speaking, were apt to find as uncompanionable 
 as a " no trespass " on a signboard. Hillbury 
 appreciated the girl's beauty, in the abstract, 
 as he would have appreciated the beauty of 
 a perfect crystal ; as a woman, she had no 
 existence for him, and, as a woman, she instantly 
 felt it. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Hillbury, suddenly aware 
 that he was still holding the photograph. "Is 
 this a picture of a friend of yours?" 
 
 "No," said the girl. She seemed to hesitate, 
 and then added, " not to say a friend." 
 
 Hillbury could not help seeing that she was 
 blushing, and that some excitement made her 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 191 
 
 breath come deep and short. It might be anger, 
 but it did not look like it. 
 
 "Is it pardon me again a friend of your 
 father's ? " The girl did not reply, and Hillbury 
 added, "I take the liberty of asking because it is 
 a picture of a friend of mine, and I cannot help 
 being surprised to find it here." 
 
 Hillbury could not help laying a slight emphasis 
 on the last word. The girl's color deepened as 
 she said, " I do' know as you had any call to find 
 it here." 
 
 " Very true," Hillbury admitted, smiling in ac 
 knowledgment of the just retort; "but you see 
 I have found it, as it happens, and really I would 
 like to know how it came here." 
 
 "Well, then, I can't tell you." 
 
 " Do you mean you cannot tell me because you 
 do not know ? " 
 
 " I mean you needn't ask me no more questions, 
 for I won't answer 'em." 
 
 " Very well," said Hillbury ; " here is the pic 
 ture, and here is my card. When you see this 
 gentleman again, please hand it to him, will 
 you?" 
 
 The girl took the picture and the card he gave 
 her. She looked doubtfully at the words, " U. S. 
 
192 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Geological Survey," engraved beneath the name. 
 They conveyed to her mind no idea beyond that 
 vague suspicion with which the passwords of the 
 educated class are regarded by the ignorant. She 
 was not sure that this easy yet distant stranger 
 was not making her in some way the instrument 
 of his diversion perhaps at her own expense. 
 
 Hillbury stood in the doorway, watching her 
 || with puzzled, unhappy interest. Her beauty, as 
 of a perfect young animal, a triumphant survival 
 of the fittest feminine type, impressed him the 
 more as he examined it. She was as handsome as 
 Josephine, and as much more dangerous, to the 
 average man, as passion without discipline could 
 make her. 
 
 The girl found nothing to reassure her in Hill- 
 bury's inscrutable dark eyes. He lifted his hat 
 and gravely wished her good-afternoon, and again 
 his courtesy seemed to remind her of the distance 
 between them. 
 
 Hillbury had a great fondness for Bodewin. 
 He was quite used to disapproving of him. He 
 was always longing to put him to rights, to rouse 
 his ambition, and make him show for what he was 
 worth. But, illogical as Bodewin's life was, in his 
 friend's opinion, and provoking as were his habits, 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 193 
 
 Hillbury had ever found him one of the most 
 truthful, sensitive, and scrupulous of men. Yet 
 he was aware that there was a side of Bodewin's 
 life he knew nothing of. There had been a jour 
 ney to Deadwood to which Bodewin had never 
 referred, though it was evident to all who knew 
 him that, in one way or another, it had been a hard 
 trip for him ; and there was this trouble with Har- 
 kins which Bodewin had gloomily alluded to. 
 Why not go to him frankly and ask him what all 
 this nonsense was about, and what, in particular, 
 he meant by pretending ignorance of a house 
 where a discussion of his picture called up so much 
 feeling on the part of a pretty resident ? Decid 
 edly that was the proper thing to do. Since 'he 
 had spoken of Bodewin in the matter, he could do 
 no less than speak to him. He would open the 
 subject on the first suitable occasion. No such 
 occasion came, however. It seemed almost as if 
 Bodewin might be trying to avoid him. Hillbury 
 did not see him again to speak with him before his 
 departure for Denver. 
 
 Hillbury had certain convictions which he never 
 expressed, because they were incapable of proof. 
 One of these was the conviction that Bodewin was 
 not dead. About two weeks after Bodewin's dis- 
 
194 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 appearance, when all efforts to find him or to learn 
 his fate had ceased in the camp, Hillbuiy set out 
 one day alone in search of his friend. He had 
 mentioned to no one the object of his journey. 
 He took the same way by which he had guided 
 Mrs. Craig's party to the lake. He passed the 
 burnt timber, entered the spruce forest, and, plod 
 ding on through gleam and shadow, kept the trail 
 as far as a certain ridge which he followed, moving 
 now more slowly and looking about him for that 
 little hollow where the cabin lurked, and where 
 he expected to find, yet hoped not to find, his 
 friend. 
 
 . He came upon the cabin from the rear, and find 
 ing the ground around the prospect-hole unsuit 
 able for a nearer approach on horseback, he 
 dismounted, and walked around the cabin towards 
 its entrance. He could see the porch while he 
 was still some distance from it, the long bench, 
 sheltered by the projecting roof, and seated there, 
 conspicuous in the morning sunlight, he saw John 
 Bode win. His back was partly turned to Hill- 
 bury. Against his shoulder rested a woman's 
 head, a young head, thickly covered with light, 
 shining hair. His hand seemed to press it closer, 
 while his head was bent over the face beneath his 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 195 
 
 own. An idyllic stillness and peace surrounded 
 the solitary cabin. There seemed no one in the 
 forest but these two silent, lover-like figures and 
 Hillbury, who had set his foot within their para 
 dise. Hillbury did not see a man seated, smoking, 
 on the farther end of the bench, where a hop vine 
 sheltered it. He looked but an instant upon what 
 he believed to be his friend's disgrace, and then 
 tramped fiercely back to the spot where he had 
 left his horse. 
 
 As he rode homeward through the melancholy 
 spruces, his hot disgust passed, and left a feeling 
 as if he had come from a burial. "I knew he was 
 not dead. Would that he were would that he/ 
 were, rather than this I " He lay sleepless in his 
 blankets that night before his camp-fire, going 
 over and over again the evidence against Bode win, 
 and trying to find some flaw in the chain of 
 proofs. 
 
 He remembered that Bodewin had not joined 
 in the mirth over Craig's story of the cabin and 
 the pretty, golden-haired girl who had said she 
 was a stranger in those parts. He had declared 
 there was no such cabin. He had afterwards 
 seemed to waver and half withdraw the assertion. 
 The cabin had been found, and his picture had 
 
196 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 been seen there. The girl had blushed, and re 
 fused to talk of it or of him. He had refused to 
 
 ? { go on the Eagle Bird case because of some myste- 
 
 ' rious hold Harkins had on him through a woman. 
 
 1 He had been on the verge of a confession, or an 
 explanation, which was evidently painful to him. 
 He had at the last moment consented to give his 
 testimony, had declined to go over the range with 
 the Eagle Bird outfit, had gone alone, and had 
 not been heard from since. He was at the cabin 
 
 ' in the woods, the cabin he had pretended to doubt 
 the existence of, comfortably secluded, in the 
 society of a handsome girl, of a class from which 
 he could not take a wife. 
 
 Would that he were dead ! Hillbur}^ summed 
 up the case against his friend. The sad, pure, 
 sensitive Bodewin, negligent, yet over-scrupulous, 
 whom he had loved and watched over for many 
 years, was no more, nor had he ever been. The 
 poor fellow had his own strange charm. Hillbury 
 owned it and missed it, even then when he be 
 lieved that he had long been misled by it. The 
 next evening he went to see Josephine. He went 
 more than once to see her ; nor could he yet assure 
 himself that she was not grieving silently for 
 Bodewin. One evening he asked her if she would 
 
CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE. 197 
 
 take a ride with him in the valley. She turned 
 red and then pale. 
 
 "No," she said; "I hate the valley ! " 
 
 "Wherever else you please, then." 
 
 "No, not anywhere, thank you. I shall rtofr 
 ride any more while I am here." 
 
 When he went home that night, he said to him 
 self, " She, too, is mourning for the living dead." 
 And when he considered how her thoughts must[ 
 be dwelling on the recreant Bodewin and idealiz 
 ing him in his absence, the folly of his friend's 
 conduct seemed to him almost more tragic than 
 its baseness. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 BABE. 
 
 THE Keesner cabin consisted of two rooms, one 
 
 \ 
 
 behind the other, with an unfinished loft above 
 them. The rear room was built into the hill, win- 
 dowless, and lighted only from the adjoining room. 
 Babe had slept in this part of the cabin, called 
 the "dug-out," until Bodewin became one of the 
 family, when it was given to him, and Babe took 
 the garret for her bedroom. 
 
 The Keesners, father and son, slept below in the 
 outer room, across the doorway of Bodewin's 
 room. They lay, with their guns beside them, on 
 a camp blanket sewed to the hem of the calico 
 curtain which covered the doorway. The blanket 
 was an extension of the curtain; sleeping on it, 
 they were thus in a position to be disturbed by 
 any movement of it from within. 
 
 At five o'clock on the morning after his capture, 
 Bodewin and his keepers were still asleep. The 
 interior of the cabin was dim and quiet as the 
 
 198 
 
BABE. 199 
 
 gray morning twilight in the woods outside. 
 Babe had been softly moving about overhead, and 
 now she came down the ladder which, propped 
 against a square hole in the floor of the garret, 
 served for a staircase. A few red coals were still 
 winking among the ashes- on the hearth. She 
 raked them out, and started a blaze with kindlings 
 laid ready overnight. Then she took the water- 
 pail, and went out to fill it at the well. By this 
 time, her father and brother were awake. They 
 got up with a noise of boots like horses waking 
 in their stalls, and limped, grumbling and cursing, 
 to the fire. 
 
 " Floor gits mighty cold, nights," said the elder 
 Keesner. "Dum nigh par'lized!" he muttered, 
 rubbing his chilled joints. Tony, squatting on 
 the hearth, shoulders drawn together, and hands 
 spread to the warmth, spat into the ashes in 
 silence. 
 
 Bodewin now came out and asked for water to 
 wash with. Neither of the men stirred, but Dad 
 said : 
 
 " Guess Babe ain't done with the basin yet." 
 
 Tony, on reflection, went to the door and ordered 
 her to hurry up, and was in turn ordered by his 
 father to shut that door ! " 
 
200 
 
 In a few moments Babe came in, looking pink 
 about the ears and elbows, with damp rings of 
 hair standing out around her forehead, and offered 
 to Bode win a clean bright tin basin, which had 
 been not only emptied but wiped. She filled it 
 for him as he held it, gave him a coarse clean 
 towel and a square of yellow soap ; but not a 
 glance or a word did she bestow upon him. 
 
 "'Tain't often Babe's mad lasts overnight," her 
 father remarked as she left the room. 
 
 When Bodewin, his camp toilet completed, went 
 to the door to empty the tin basin, he was fain to 
 linger there a moment for another look at Babe. 
 She was hanging out the blankets to air, standing 
 a little way off, in the clear morning sunlight, 
 against the bronze and green tones of the forest 
 distance. Her attitude, with both arms lifted, 
 showed the nymph-like proportions of her form. 
 From the back-thrown head, and full short curve 
 of the chin melting into the long white curve of 
 the throat, to the strong-springing line of her 
 instep, that lightly upbore her to her fullest 
 height, she was to the eye perfect. 
 
 Bodewin prudently reflected that her speech 
 would probably be disillusioning. Dad Keesner 
 and Tony had followed him closely with their 
 
BABE. 201 
 
 rifles in their Lands. He turned suddenly from 
 the open door and confronted them, glancing 
 coolly from their faces to their weapons. 
 
 "You don't need to go to that door again," said 
 Dad ; and Tony added, " We kin empty your 
 slops for you." 
 
 At breakfast the three men sat down together, 
 and Babe waited on them. Bodewin thought of 
 those long-haired, white-armed northern captives 
 serving in the tents of their conquerors. Babe's j 
 beauty had in it the element of tragedy, as heh 
 discovered when he tried to find her prototype in \j 
 romance or tradition. 
 
 During the next three days Bodewin was con 
 fined to the cabin, Dad and Tony relieving each 
 other in the close watch they kept upon him. He 
 saw much of Babe, as she went and came about 
 her housework, but he was far too wise in the 
 ways of all proud, shy, dependent creatures to 
 force himself in the slightest upon her notice. 
 He was tolerably sure that he was observed, and 
 that keenly, but he was not impatient to learn the 
 nature of Babe's conclusions with regard to him 
 self. In small, unobtrusive ways he made himself 
 useful to her, but most of the time he was occu 
 pied with mild resources of his own to which she 
 
202 JOHN BODEWIN' s TESTIMONY. 
 
 was a stranger. He made sketches in his note 
 book. Happening to have about him a stylo- 
 graphic pen charged with ink, he took advantage 
 of its unexpected fluency, and copied some strag 
 gling pencil-notes from one book into another. 
 This latter amusement, however, aroused the sus 
 picions of his keepers. Keesner remarked that 
 there wasn't any post-office anywhere in that part 
 of the woods, and that he guessed Bodewin's let 
 ters could wait. 
 
 Bodewin took the hint good-humoredly enough. 
 It was part of the situation which he had decided 
 to accept. But afterwards, as he sat smoking by 
 the fire, his occupation gone, his face fell into its 
 habitual expression, a sadness which bore no refer 
 ence to his present circumstances, but was rather 
 an aggregation dating from the time of his moody 
 boyhood. Babe, looking at him wistfully, and 
 forgetting in his evident abstraction to ignore his 
 presence in the room, interpreted it otherwise. 
 Bodewin, having nothing else to do, continued to 
 smoke, and to stare at the water which was begin 
 ning to ruffle in a saucepan propped on two stones 
 above a bed of coals. Babe had gone out of 
 doors. Shortly she returned with something that 
 moved, bundled in her apron. She came over to 
 
BABE. 203 
 
 the hearth, knelt in front of Bode win, and lower 
 ing her arms showed him a young setter dog, that 
 immediately began whirling about in her lap and 
 caressing her hands and face alternately. She 
 muzzled his nose with both hands. 
 
 " Pretty, ain't he ? " she asked, smiling down 
 into the creature's face, and trying to fix his soft, 
 restless brown eyes with her own. The dog 
 snuffed and. struggled, and tried to free his nose 
 from the pressure of her circling fingers. Bode- 
 win leaned down and admired him, pulling his 
 ears, looking at his teeth, and inquiring his age 
 and name. 
 
 " We call him ' Pardner,' " Babe replied to the 
 last question. "Don't you want him to play with? 
 He's heaps of company." 
 
 The dog was transferred from Babe's lap to 
 Bodewin's knees. As Pardner objected' to the 
 smell of tobacco, Bodewin put his pipe in his 
 pocket. Babe stood up, and for a moment lost 
 her shyness of Bodewin in the fond content with 
 which she regarded his wooing of her pet. She 
 remonstrated with Pardner for chewing Bodewin's 
 sleeve-buttons, but evidently thought no less of 
 Bodewin for holding his ornaments so cheap, or 
 the dog so dear. 
 
204 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " You can fool with him all you want to," she 
 said finally. " He don't belong to anybody in this 
 house but me." 
 
 After these first few days of confinement Bode- 
 win was allowed to spend his time as he preferred, 
 either in the cabin or outside in the woods, close 
 by. One day Tony was missing, and the next 
 morning Jim Keesner volunteered that Tony had 
 heard from the camp yesterday. The Eagle Bird 
 had obtained a postponement of the trial for a 
 month, " on account of unavoidable absence 
 of principal witness," Keesner quoted compla 
 cently. He then made Bodewin the offer of his 
 liberty, on condition that he would swear not to 
 testify on this or any subsequent trial of the case 
 between the two mines, and that he would keep 
 the secret of his abduction. Bodewin smiled at 
 this proposition. 
 
 Keesner admitted that he had not expected him 
 to accept it, and advised him to take his detention 
 as coolly as possible, since it would now necessarily 
 be prolonged until after the trial. 
 
 Keesner protested that neither he nor Tony had 
 anything against Bodewin, unless it might be 
 Tony "owed him one on that circus with the 
 horse." And further, he was willing Bodewin 
 
BABE. 205 
 
 should know that, " although they hel' the cards, 
 Harlcins was runnin' the game." 
 
 While they were on the subject Bodewin asked 
 if it was not Harkins who had planned his cap 
 ture. 
 
 Keesner shut one eye tight and fixed the other 
 on the toe of his uppermost boot, as he sat, with 
 his knees crossed, on the bench by the door. 
 
 "That there Harkins is jest murmurin' h 
 
 when he gits started ! He's jest omnivorous ! " 
 He rocked himself forward on his crossed arms 
 and laughed with deep and silent enjoyment. 
 
 "How did he know I was going alone by the 
 trail?" Bodewin asked. 
 
 " How does Harkins know anything ! If you'd 
 V went the other way he'd been fixed for you just 
 the same. How'd he git your picture ? " 
 
 "What!" 
 
 Keesner rose up chuckling and went into the 
 cabin, followed by the roused look of inquiry in 
 Bodewin's eyes. He fumbled about on the mantel 
 shelf, and came back with a photograph, which he 
 laid on Bodewin's knee. 
 
 "There ye are ! How'd he git that ? " 
 
 Bodewin stared at the picture in gloomy amaze 
 ment. He had not seen it since the day, fourteen 
 
206 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 years ago, when lie stood by the white-draped 
 table in his sister's room at home, talking to her 
 of Frank Eustis, his eyes meanwhile wandering 
 absently from one to another of her innocent girl 
 ish trophies. It was the day before Frank Eustis 
 came, at his invitation, on that hapless visit. So 
 all these years of their separation she had kept 
 her brother's picture. Seldom as she might have 
 looked upon it, there must have been some linger 
 ing sentiment which had prevented her from part 
 ing with it. Bodewin was at no loss to guess 
 how, among her poor belongings, it had passed 
 from the hand of Harkins's lady friend to Harkins 
 himself, to be finally put to this ingenious use. 
 Harkins had certainly a devilish sense of humor. 
 
 " Why did Harkins give you this, do you 
 know? " Bodewin asked at length. 
 
 "So we wouldn't miss our man," Keesner re 
 plied. " I never set eyes on you, and didn't want 
 to, beforehand, see, for fear you'd know me 
 when I come to tackle you on the road." 
 
 Bodewin tore up the picture, Keesner looking 
 on and making no objection. It had served its 
 purpose, so far as he was concerned. 
 
 It had served another purpose. The picture 
 had been sent to the cabin a month or more before 
 
BABE. 207 
 
 Bode win himself was brought there. Babe had 
 not seen many pictures in her life. She had never 
 known a man's face like the one this picture set 
 before her. Poring over it whenever she could 
 have it to herself unobserved, there had been time 
 enough for the sowing of those seeds of trouble 
 which were now maturing fast. 
 
 So, while Tony sulked arid Bodewin rested 
 in his brief exemption from responsibility, and 
 Keesner chuckled over Harkins's cleverness and 
 counted the wages of his own iniquity, Babe was 
 the common victim. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AMATEUR SURGERY. 
 
 THAT evening by candle-light in the cabin 
 Bodewin was looking over a collection of " speci 
 mens " which represented the financial hopes and 
 disappointments of the Keesner family for the 
 past two or three years. Jim Keesner was try 
 ing to get a professional opinion from Bodewin 
 regarding a certain piece of quartz he had at that 
 time a particular interest in. It had been taken 
 from one of Keesner's numerous "prospects" 
 which Harkins had just bonded for ten thou 
 sand dollars. Bodewin's safe-keeping until after 
 the trial had a more important bearing on the sale 
 of Keesner's mine than the value of the property 
 itself. 
 
 Keesner was well aware of this fact ; but there 
 was the bare possibility that the mine might be 
 worth something like the amount of the bond, in 
 which case Harkins's bounty on Bodewin's capture 
 
 208 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 209 
 
 and detention would not amount to much after 
 all. Highly as Keesner respected his principal's 
 ability, he did not care to furnish an illustration 
 of it in his own person. It was a privilege to be 
 associated in business with a man like Harkins ; 
 nevertheless it was a privilege one might at any 
 moment be called upon to pay dearly for. 
 
 Bodewin turned the quartz specimen over on 
 his palm and tried its weight. In order to obtain 
 a fresh fracture he struck it, as it lay on his open 
 hand, with another piece of stone he had picked 
 up from the table. As the quartz fell in pieces, 
 Babe, who had been leaning over Tony's shoulder, 
 looking on at the inspection of minerals, drew 
 back quickly. She had got a particle of the sharp 
 quartz sand in her eye. 
 
 She went away from the light and sat apart 
 with her hand over her face, refusing to have the 
 eye looked at. Her father teased her, and Tony 
 bullied her with various methods of extracting 
 the sand. Babe would have none of them, and 
 finally went to bed, saying " it would work out 
 itself before morning." 
 
 She came down early as usual next day and 
 prepared breakfast, making no complaint. She 
 had tied a bandage over the injured eye, and was 
 
210 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 evidently suffering, though still obstinate when 
 remedies were suggested. After breakfast Tony 
 went to the corral to feed the horses. Dad Kees- 
 ner had taken his favorite seat for a morning 
 smoke, on the corner of the bench sheltered by a 
 hop-vine, and near the cabin window. He could 
 thus enjoy the still September sunshine and keep 
 at the same time an eye on Bodewin, who sat 
 within, whittling, by the hearth. Babe had 
 washed and put away her breakfast things, 
 moving about silently, as she had done ever 
 since the formidable stranger's arrival. She now 
 took down the broom from its nail behind the 
 door, a sign that she wanted the cabin cleared of 
 men. 
 
 Bodewin had been at work on a couple of 
 match-sticks, whittling them until each one was 
 as soft and thin at the end as a fine, flat camel's- 
 hair brush. With these frivolous-looking imple 
 ments in his fingers he approached Babe and said 
 gently, but as if he expected her to listen : 
 
 " I want to take that thing out of your eye. It 
 is time it was out." 
 
 "How are you going to ?" Babe asked. 
 
 " Come here to the light, and I will show you." 
 
 As she hesitated, Bodewin took the broom out 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 211 
 
 of her hands, keeping his eyes upon her and 
 motioned towards the door. He waited for her 
 to precede him, grave, courteous, but peremptory 
 as a physician should be. 
 
 She obeyed, laughing a little nervously, perhaps 
 at the novelty of finding herself obedient to mas 
 culine direction. 
 
 At his command she sat down on the bench 
 outside, turning her face to the jight. 
 
 " Take off the bandage, please." 
 
 She took it off with fingers that were slightly 
 tremulous. Bode win gave her one of the match- 
 sticks and showed her how to moisten the whit 
 tled * end in her mouth, until it was soft and 
 pliable as a feather. Then taking her head firmly 
 against his shoulder he pressed her shrinking lids 
 apart, and passed the slip of wood under the lid, 
 from the outer to the inner corner of the eye. 
 
 The relief was instantaneous. Babe's head 
 drooped. Helpless tears bathed her cheek where 
 the mounting blood was fast effacing the impress 
 of Bodewin's fingers. 
 
 He did not look at her at once, but turning to 
 her father, showed him the speck of quartz on the 
 soft end of the stick he had just used. 
 
 " Hisht ! " said Keesner, taking his pipe from 
 
212 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 his mouth. "Tony!" he called, leaning to look 
 past Bode win. u ls that you, Tony? I thought 
 I heered a man's feet goin' round the house. 
 Did you hear him ? " turning to Bodewin. 
 
 "Yes, I heard it; I thought it was Tony," 
 Bodewin replied. 
 
 Keesner listened a moment, dubiously, and then 
 resumed his pipe. There was nothing surprising 
 in the silence that had followed Keesner's call. 
 Tony rarely condescended to raise his voice in 
 answer to the paternal summons, but made his 
 appearance in due time when it pleased him to 
 come. 
 
 Bodewin, meantime, in whom captivity* had 
 bred a habit of restlessness that was not natural 
 to him, had wandered back into the cabin, be 
 cause he was' tired of the porch. He was sur 
 prised to see Babe seated by the table, her head 
 bowed low, her face hiclde*h on her crossed arms. 
 He stopped beside her and asked if the wounded 
 eye still gave her pain. She seemed to repel his 
 sympathy by a mute gesture which left him still 
 in doubt as to the cause of her trouble. 
 
 " What is it, Babe ? What is the matter ? " he 
 urged. 
 
 Babe had never in her life listened to a man's 
 
AMATEUR SUKGERY. 218 
 
 voice like Bodewin's, with sensitive inflections, 
 that made her color come and go, and a distinc 
 tive quality like that of a musical instrument. 
 His low tones touched her the more keenly now 
 by contrast to that peremptory manner of the 
 physician he had before assumed. They thrilled 
 across her fresh, wild sensibilities as the tenderest 
 uttered words might have done. She raised her 
 head and looked up at Bodewin without speaking. 
 Bodewin turned away. He was impatient of this 
 uncalled-for show of feeling in Babe, which 
 seemed to threaten complications in their en 
 forced relation to each other. He was himself 
 intensely, often savagely, preoccupied with 
 thoughts of all that might be doing or done 
 with and finished in that world of his own, from 
 which he had been eliminated as by death. It 
 was irritating to have to think about Babe when 
 he wanted to think about himself. He called it 
 thinking about himself when he dreamed rest 
 lessly, in the long, silent hours, of Josephine. 
 He would have had this other girl come and go 
 before his absent gaze in her beauty that was so 
 satisfying in its strength and completeness, and 
 be no more of a problem than the sunlight on the 
 wall. 
 
214 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 From some impulse, perhaps to satisfy himself 
 that he had not been making too much of a mo 
 mentary impression, he went back to where Babe 
 still sat, with her face hidden in her hands. 
 
 " Let me see that eye again," he said, resuming 
 the matter-of-fact tone of her physician. 
 
 "You don't need to; it's all right," she pro 
 tested, shrinking away from him. 
 
 " Let me see it ! " he repeated, authoritatively. 
 " It cannot be all right if you have to keep it cov 
 ered like that." 
 
 She let her hands fall and submitted to his 
 scrutiny, but it was impossible to meet his eyes, 
 with such a helpless quivering of her lips, and 
 the blood rushing into her face. She drew back, 
 with a quick, gasping sigh, and burst into tears. 
 
 " What are you crying about ? " said Bode win, 
 angry with himself, and with Babe for making 
 him feel both foolish and cruel. " Are you crying 
 because the speck is gone ? You will have to for 
 give me ; I cannot put it back again." 
 
 During the rest of the day Bodewin made it 
 easy for Babe to avoid him, by keeping outside 
 of the cabin himself. At dinner she did not sit 
 at the table with the family. Bodewin was not 
 surprised at her absence. He knew that she had 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 215 
 
 not forgiven him ; moreover, he had observed that 
 Babe would never eat with him if she could help 
 it, partly from shyness, partly from pride. She 
 was intensely sure that in a hundred unknown 
 ways he found her different from the women he 
 was used to. Not to exhibit this difference, she 
 took pains to give him as little of her speech and 
 manners as possible. She had got a step beyond j 
 the men of her family, who saw between Bodewiii; 
 and themselves few differences that were not in il 
 their own favor. 
 
 At dusk Bode win found himself alone with 
 Babe a moment in the cabin. Tony sat in the 
 doorway, his rifle between his knees, his face 
 turned towards the copper-colored sunset, glow 
 ing behind the woods. It was Tony's watch. 
 Dad was relaxing himself with a twilight stroll 
 outside. 
 
 Babe had taken this opportunity to give Bode- 
 win the card which Hillbury had left for him. 
 
 "Where did this come from?" Bode win asked. 
 
 " He told me to give it to you." 
 
 " He ? What, this man ? " pointing to the card. 
 
 Babe looked bewildered. 
 
 "I don't know. He was a dark-complexioned 
 man in buckskin clothes. He stopped in here for 
 
216 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 some matches. There wasn't anybody 'round 
 but me. I found him standing there with your 
 with that picture of you in his hand." 
 
 "And then ?" said Bodewin, seeing the whole 
 situation, and now painfully interested. 
 
 " He asked me some questions." 
 
 " Do you remember what questions ? " 
 
 Babe repeated the questions, falteringly, though 
 she remembered them well. 
 
 "And you did not tell him I had never been 
 to the cabin, and you had never seen me be 
 fore?" 
 . Babe was silent. 
 
 " This is the worst yet ! " Bodewin groaned. 
 
 " Tell him yourself when you see him again, if 
 you're so 'shamed of it ! " Babe whispered passion 
 ately. 
 
 "Yes, when I see him again," Bodewin repeated. 
 "When will that be?" 
 
 " Sooner than you think, maybe." 
 
 "The sooner the better," he said. Stepping 
 back from the hearth, he trod on Pardner's foot. 
 The dog howled dismally, and Babe, with a look 
 of angry reproach at Bodewin, swept the wailing 
 puppy into her arms and carried him out of 
 doors. 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 217 
 
 When she had prepared supper, she set a single 
 candle in a japanned tin candlestick on the table, 
 and, without speaking to any one, went out into 
 the darkness, leaving the men to themselves. 
 
 "What ails Babe?" Tony asked. 
 
 "She's on her ear about somethin' or other," 
 her father explained, between large mouthfuls of 
 beans. 
 
 "I'd make her quit her foolishness if I was 
 you," said Tony. 
 
 " Yes, you better try a lasso to her ; maybe 
 you'll fetch her same's you did that there white- 
 faced hoss o' his'n," said the father, winking at 
 Bodewin and laughing uproariously at his own 
 joke. 
 
 Bodewin ate his supper in silence and went to 
 bed early. He was not fond of the "dug-out," 
 but its cave-like darkness and stillness suited 
 him to-night better than the society and candle 
 light of the outer room. 
 
 Hillbury's tacit message by the hand of Babe 
 had given him a bad turn. He could not have 
 known that the keen eyes of his friend had 
 surprised Babe's miserable little secret in her 
 face, and that the man of evidence had for once 
 allowed himself to come to a conclusion without 
 
218 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 waiting for proof, but without going this length 
 in his apprehensions, there were reasons enough 
 iwhy he should be impatient to explain himself. 
 Small effort as he had ever made to gain it, 
 Bodewin really hungered for Hillbury's cold and 
 tardy approbation. His friend's whole attitude 
 and humor suited him exquisitely in a man ; in a 
 woman the effect might be a little meagre. A 
 man should never make a fool of himself, but a 
 woman might do so very charmingly, on occasion, 
 with the right person, of course. 
 
 The conjunction of ideas was hardly complimen 
 tary, but Bode win's next thought was of Jose 
 phine. There comes a time, no doubt, in a man's 
 relations with an attractive woman, when he may 
 yet decide either to take in sail, emotionally 
 speaking, or square away before it, trusting there 
 may be no danger ahead. This time came to 
 Bodewin about the period of those long gallops 
 in the valley, and pacings homeward through the 
 pine woods at sunset. Setting his estimate of his 
 own person, attainments, fortune, and prospects 
 against her youth, beauty, and nobleness of char 
 acter, he had decided to take in sail. Theoreti 
 cally he had begun to do so before his abduction. 
 It might be questioned how well he would have 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 219 
 
 succeeded in practice had he been left to complete 
 his journey to Denver, and to return with the 
 honors of chief witness on the winning side, to 
 be petted by the Eagle Bird constituency. As it 
 had turned out, Bodewin more than once since/ 
 his sequestration had sadly congratulated himself 
 on this stroke of fate which had put him out of 
 temptation's way. 
 
 But to-night, in the general upheaval, reason 
 could make no headway against the keen and 
 passionate sense of loss with which he counted 
 the days of his absence. After the trial the New- 
 bolds would probably go East at once ; he might 
 never see Josephine again. The break was intoler 
 ably sudden. There were things he must say to 
 her before they parted finally. He must clear 
 himself from all injurious, vague suspicions, and 
 establish his good faith in her eyes ; then perhaps 
 he might be able to give her up without this 
 clamorous, childish pain. 
 
 Bodewin was not the only watcher in the cabin 
 that night. Babe had also gone early to bed, but 
 not to sleep. She had taken Bodewin's last 
 words to her pillow. " The sooner the better," 
 she repeated to herself. It should be soon. It 
 must be soon, for her own sake, if not for his. 
 
220 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 She heard her father talking with Tony in the 
 room below. Their voices were slightly lowered, 
 as if the conversation had taken a confidential 
 tone. Babe got out of bed, stepped softly across 
 the loose boards of the floor to the open ladder- 
 hole, and laid herself down beside it. She had 
 come to a bitter, costly resolve with regard to 
 Bodewin, but to carry it out she must learn all 
 she could of her father's intentions towards his 
 prisoner. 
 
 Tony was speaking now. " Say, do you know 
 what the talk is down to camp ? " 
 
 " What do I know about camp ! " Dad crossly 
 rejoined. " Hain't seen so much as the sign on a 
 gin-mill for six months." 
 
 " There's a heap of talk about him. They 'low 
 down there he never would 'a' started if it hadn't 
 'a' been for Newbold's daughter." 
 
 " Say Newbold's coin, and you'll be talkin V 
 
 " Same thing " it was Tony who spoke again. 
 "Newbold gits his case, and he gits the girl, and 
 the coin too. That's what they're talkin' down 
 below." 
 
 " Thought you said 'twas ginerally 'lowed he'd 
 lit out by himself, on purpose ? " 
 
 "That's Sammis's racket. Sammis makes him- 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 221 
 
 self a heap of importance 'bout now. He knowed 
 it all beforehand. He told 'em just how 'twould 
 be!" 
 
 " Well, it don't look onlikely," said Dad, slowly. 
 
 "What don't?" 
 
 " That there story 'bout the girl." 
 
 " Guess you'd think so if you was to see her 
 once ! " 
 
 " Where'd you ever see her ? " 
 
 Babe could not see the men, as they crouched 
 forward over the fire, but by their shadows 
 thrown on the opposite wall she could guess at 
 Tony's attitude. 
 
 "I looked at her," he said, leaning towards 
 his father, without taking his elbows off his 
 knees, "straight as I'm lookin' at you now, for 
 much as half an hour up here on Mike's claim. 
 I could tell you her p'ints like I could Babe's 
 here." 
 
 " She's got p'ints, eh?" 
 
 Tony nodded his head, and his giant double on 
 the wall repeated the action impressively. 
 
 "What age 'bout? " Dad asked. 
 
 " 'Bout Babe's age little older, maybe. She's 
 a different color to Babe. Black eyes, and eye 
 brows like a streak o' charcoal." 
 
222 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " Sho, I bet she can't hold half a candle to our 
 Babe ! " 
 
 " I bet she can hold two ask Bod'in ! " 
 
 "Durn'd if it ain't a reg'lar circus!" Dad 
 laughed his low-bred, cunning laugh and slapped 
 his knees. 
 
 " Can't ye make a little more noise ? " Tony 
 whispered savagely. 
 
 " Say, Tony ! " Keesner gave his son a shove 
 with his elbow, " was he 'long of her up there 
 on the Mike?" 
 
 " They was jawin' together, I tell you, the 
 whole durned time. Him a-layin' on his elbow 
 lookiii' at her, and her face as red as that coal." 
 
 " No ! 'Twas the sun likely." 
 
 " I tell you, he's dead gone on her. It's all the 
 talk down to camp. She put him up to testifyin'. 
 Harkins must V had that in his head when he 
 told us to say she sent the papers." 
 
 "That there Harkins is a reg'lar coon," said 
 Dad, with feeling. 
 
 "It's going to be a tough pull on him, hidin' 
 out here for a month. He'll feel mighty ugly 
 when he gits loose," said Tony. 
 
 "Harkins has got to settle that bill," Dad re 
 plied. " 'Tain't none of my funeral ! " 
 
AMATEUR SURGERY. 223 
 
 " You'll see 'fore we git through whose funeral 
 it will be." 
 
 Babe had writhed herself over, prone on the 
 floor, in the darkness. She had no words, no 
 thoughts. She seemed made of one great agony. 
 Nothing was clear to her but the image of Bode- 
 win, his attitude, his eyes. She could feel them 
 resting upon her face as if she had been that 
 other girl whom he was longing to see. 
 
 She understood all now, as one sufferer knows 
 another's pain his restless days, his days of 
 moody silence. The dull, beseeching pain in his 
 eyes meant no want of his that she could satisfy. 
 
 Towards morning she got up from the floor 
 and threw herself on her bed. From complete 
 weariness she lost herself, and slept heavily until 
 awakened by her father calling and shaking the 
 ladder below. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 
 
 THE days of Bodewin's captivity were spent in 
 eating and sleeping, training the setter-pup, argu 
 ing with Dad, ignoring Tony, and, over and above 
 his own private fund of sweet and bitter fancy, 
 wondering what could be the matter with Babe. 
 At times, as on the day he had treated the wound 
 ed eye, he had fancied he knew what the nature 
 of her trouble was ; but the supposition involved 
 such gross and fatuous vanity on his part, that he 
 preferred to reject it, even in the face of symp 
 toms difficult to account for on any other hypoth 
 esis. 
 
 To keep on the safe side, however, he now spent 
 his days almost entirely out of doors. 
 
 He had found some amusement in the making 
 of a rude sun-dial on the top of a pine-stump that 
 had been sawed a few feet from the ground. On 
 its tablet of shaded amber-colored rings he had 
 
 224 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 225 
 
 inscribed the hours in a circle. He was now at 
 work on an appropriate motto, which was to form 
 a lesser circle, inclosing the dial-plate. He had 
 first read it carved on a stone dial that had 
 counted the sunny hours in an old mission garden 
 of lower California. A passion-vine had wound 
 itself about the broken column, and fragrantly 
 closed the record. Bodewin had parted its sprays, 
 heavy with purple blossoms, to read the words : 
 
 " Coma la sombra, haya la hora." 
 ( As the shadow, flies the hour. ) 
 
 Many a time since, in times of waiting or on soli 
 tary journeys, they had found their way back to 
 his thoughts and left with him their echo of home 
 sickness. 
 
 Bodewin was cutting the last letters of this in 
 scription one day, when Babe, on her way to the 
 well, stopped and watched him at his work, and 
 lingered still, with nothing to say, yet as if she 
 wished to say something. After waiting for her 
 to speak, Bodewin asked rather sentimentally 
 " You will look at my clock in the forest, some 
 times, when I am gone, Babe ? " 
 
 He found it difficult to avoid a half-caressing, 
 half-condescending tone in talking to her. She 
 made him think of those women in Genesis, with 
 
226 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 perfect bodies, and souls whose history went not 
 back beyond a few generations. 
 
 " You want to leave yere mighty bad, don't 
 you?" she asked in a low voice, without looking 
 at him or replying to his speech about the clock. 
 
 "I want to get away, of course," Bodewin 
 answered indifferently, and on his guard at once. 
 
 " I've been studyin' 'bout a way to help you 
 off. I can't talk now, after supper maybe, out 
 side." 
 
 After supper Bodewin lit his pipe, and strolled 
 out of the cabin, attended by the familiar con 
 sciousness that he was watched by one or both of 
 his keepers. It was Dad's watch to-night. Dad 
 was more cunningly vigilant than Tony. He had 
 an air of abstraction when on duty that made his 
 society less of a restraint on the movements of his 
 prisoner. It was thus he kept en rapport with 
 Bodewin's varying mood under the pressure of his 
 long waiting. When her evening work was done, 
 Babe came out and sat a little way off from Bode 
 win on the bench. Dad smoked, and paced slowly 
 up and down the cleared space in front of the 
 cabin. As it grew dusk, only the red spark of his 
 pipe showed where he moved against the gloom of 
 the trees, and the figures of the two who sat on 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 227 
 
 the bench blended with the shadow of the low 
 projecting roof. Tony was sleeping heavily and 
 audibly on the floor of the cabin. From time to 
 time, in his walk, Dad paused opposite the open 
 door, and listened with disgust to the sleeper's 
 breathing, muttering to himself the reproof he 
 was rehearsing for his benefit. Tony was getting 
 slack about his share of the work in hand, and 
 showing, besides, an inclination to resume his 
 habit of drinking. Dad had unpleasant suspicions 
 as to the cause of this early and profound nap. 
 
 This was Babe's opportunity. Speaking low, 
 and with thickening heart-beats, she confided to 
 Bode win her plan for his escape. The possibility 
 that he might hesitate to avail himself of it had 
 not once occurred to her. 
 
 "Thank you, Babe," he said. "It is very sweet 
 of you to want to help me ; but I am not going, 
 you know." 
 
 " You ain't a-going ? Don't you want to go ? " 
 
 "Not in that way." 
 
 Pie heard her stir softly beside him, as if she 
 sighed. 
 
 "I been a-studyin', but I can't think of any 
 other way." 
 
 " Never mind, Babe ; it's awfully good of you," 
 
228 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 he said, in that caressing tone which was a fatality 
 of his talk with Babe. "I'll have to see it 
 through, if you can stand having me around." 
 
 Babe moved again restlessly beside him. Hope 
 was stirring in her heart, telling her that perhaps 
 he was not so eager to get away after all. 
 
 "It is a great temptation," he said at last. 
 "Have you thought what you will say to your 
 father when he questions you to-morrow?" 
 
 "I ain't afraid of Dad. You can believe me, it 
 will be worse for me if you keep on stayin' here." 
 
 "I thought we were getting to be such good 
 friends, Babe." 
 
 Babe was silent a moment. He thought she 
 was not going to answer, when she said, with an 
 effort at lightness, " You know you don't care for 
 me, only to fool with me." 
 
 " I care for any girl too much to fool with her. 
 It was only on your account I hesitated. Heaven 
 knows I want to get away badly enough. If you 
 understand the risk you are taking, and are wil 
 ling to take it for me " 
 
 " I take it for myself," said Babe proudly. " It 
 suits me to have you go as well as it suits you to 
 go. You can go to-night, if you've a mind to 
 keep awake. When you hear me stirrin' 'round 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 229 
 
 overhead, climb up the logs to a hole in the floor 
 where you'll see a light " 
 
 She was interrupted by Dad's approach. The 
 old man sauntered towards them out of the twi 
 light, knocked the ashes out of his pipe against a 
 post of the porch, and set his heavy foot upon the 
 boards. 
 
 " Git in, git in ! " he said. " Night's yere, and 
 mornin's comin'." 
 
 Tony was still sleeping by the fire. Bodewin 
 had gone to bed, and Babe was stooping over the 
 coals on the hearth to light her candle, when her 
 father signed to her to draw near. He looked at 
 her fixedly a moment as she stood before him, the 
 unlit candle in her hand. 
 
 " 'Pears to me you and him's gittin' mighty good 
 friends," he said, with a gesture of his head 
 towards the door of Bodewin's room. 
 
 Babe winced; but she faced him desperately. 
 
 " If you don't want us to be friends, what you 
 keepin' him here for? " she said. 
 
 " That's my business. Your business is to look 
 out for yourself. I don't want no gal's foolishness 
 'round yere. You hear me ? " 
 
 The girl flushed and then turned white. 
 
 "Dad," she almost whispered, meeting her 
 
230 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 father's eyes shrinkingly, "send him away. He 
 don't ought to be yere. I can't bear the sight of 
 him." 
 
 " It looks like you can't bear the sight of him ! 
 It looks a heap like it ! " Dad wagged his head 
 sarcastically. "Now look yere, I'll tell you 
 somethin' you don't want to forgit. He's got 
 his eye on a different piece of goods to what 
 you be." 
 
 Babe did not take her eyes from her father's 
 face while he was speaking. She was trembling, 
 and there was a strange, set smile about her 
 mouth. 
 
 " You make me feel like I wish I was dead," she 
 said, heavily. She moved a step backwards, and 
 her eyes fell. Something seemed to break up 
 within her ; tears came, and hard, choking sobs. 
 
 Her father still eyed her sternly, without any 
 movement of relenting towards her ; but she found 
 her way into his arms, and clung to him, rubbing 
 her face against his, humbly. 
 
 "There, there," said Dad, soothingly, "don't 
 talk no more foolishness." 
 
 Babe lifted her head. 
 
 "It ain't foolishness. Oh, you'll see! All of 
 Harkins's mines and all his money won't pay you 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 281 
 
 for the trouble lie's makin' here. No ; not if you 
 love your poor old Babe ! " 
 
 She sobbed, holding him by the shoulders, and 
 fairly rocking his sturdy bulk in the strength of 
 her despair. 
 
 " Girl," Keesner said, holding her off from him 
 to give his severity its full effect, " you're talkin' 
 mighty queer. You're gittin' simple. Now, you 
 hear me; that man stops yere, you understand? 
 It suits me to have him. If you're so durned 
 skeered of his company I can put you where you'll 
 have a chance to git used to men." 
 
 Babe wrenched herself out of his grasp. 
 
 " Father ! " she cried, in a low, wild voice. 
 
 " Don't you come a-fatherin' me ! " Keesner in 
 terrupted, nodding his big head at her. " You git 
 to bed and salt down what I been savin' to you." 
 
 When Babe had gone to her room Keesner filled 
 another pipe and smoked it tranquilly, satisfied 
 that he had done a parent's duty, and more than 
 satisfied with the situation, as he regarded it, 
 between Bodewin and his daughter. Nothing 
 would have suited Keesner better than for Bode 
 win to "take a hankerin' after our Babe." He 
 was willing to use his daughter, but not to sacri 
 fice her. It was not in Keesner's scheme that 
 
232 JOHN BODEWIN 's TESTIMONY. 
 
 Babe should suffer any but that intangible harm 
 which would wear out with a few girlish tears and 
 reproaches. He had gone a little too far, perhaps, 
 when he had threatened to send her down to her 
 Aunt Matild', whose husband kept a billiard and 
 drinking saloon in the camp. Babe must have 
 known that that was all a joke. He stirred up 
 Tony with his foot and made him spread down the 
 camp blankets and fetch in more wood, growling 
 like a Caliban, while he himself covered the fire 
 and bolted the outer door. 
 
 About one o'clock Bodewin, lying awake and 
 dressed on his bed, heard cautious footsteps and 
 movements overhead. When all was quiet again, 
 he rose, and, groping his way to the corner of the 
 room, climbed up the logs and crawled through an 
 opening in the floor above, where two loose boards 
 had been removed. He found himself close under 
 the rafters of the garret, and across the wide, low- 
 eaved chamber he saw through a square window 
 in the gable the moonlight on the trees outside. 
 It was a window of but one sash, which had been 
 taken out. Bodewin stumbled against it in reach 
 ing the window. He heard the stir of the night 
 breeze, and felt its soft suspiration on his face. 
 Somewhere in the shadowy room Babe was lying, 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 233 
 
 breathlessly waiting for him to be gone. He dared 
 not speak to her. He looked once toward the 
 white outline of her bed, and with a mute " God 
 bless her " turned his face to the night and liberty. 
 The descent from the window to the ground, seven 
 feet below, was easily made. Moonlight nights 
 had come again. The last one, he remembered 
 most vividly, was when at Josephine's side he had 
 walked his horse through the lights and shadows 
 of the forest trail on their homeward ride from the 
 lake. The moon was setting behind the low 
 hooded cabin which sat with its shadow at its feet. 
 In one of the bright spots of moonlight, between 
 the cabin and the trees, Bodewin was startled to 
 see a woman's figure standing as if waiting for 
 him. Raising her hand with a gesture of silence, 
 she came towards him, and he saw that it was 
 Babe. She had a shawl over her head, which 
 partly concealed her face. Bodewin protested 
 against this needless risk on her part. 
 
 " Your horse is saddled ready here at the cor 
 ral," she said, without heeding his remonstrance. 
 
 Again he insisted that she was doing too much 
 for him. 
 
 " The critters know me, and you couldn't find 
 the gear," she said. 
 
234 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "Which horse have you given me? ' 
 
 " The black one ; he ain't known yerabouts." 
 
 " That was a good thought," said Bodewin. 
 " I'll see that he gets back. Good-bye, Babe." 
 
 He held out his hand. She made no movement 
 to take it. 
 
 " You've got to promise me something before 
 you go," she said. Her manner was dull and 
 quiet, as it had been for days past. 
 
 " I'll make you any promise in the world that I 
 can honestly keep," Bodewin said. 
 
 " This here is between you and Harkins, ain't 
 it ? You won't make Dad pay for it ? " 
 
 "I will swear to you, Babe, that I will take no 
 revenge 011 any one in this house." 
 
 " Nor give us away by name ? " 
 
 " Your name shall never pass my lips, so help 
 me God." 
 
 After a pause she added, " Nor my father's, nor 
 Tony's?" 
 
 " You may trust me. I will be silent for your 
 sake, remember for what you are doing for me 
 to-night." 
 
 " I ain't a-doin' it for you," she murmured, 
 doggedly, half to herself. 
 
 "I may have to explain," Bodewin continued, 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 235 
 
 " that I was detained by force. I must do that to 
 clear myself from ugly suspicions about my ab 
 sence, you understand?" 
 
 "It makes no odds to me what you say, so's 
 you don't name us to no one, nor tell where you 
 was kep'." 
 
 " It shall be so. Now run in, quick. God bless 
 you." 
 
 She said nothing, but dropped her head an in 
 stant against the horse's neck. Bodewin thought 
 she kissed it. When she had turned away, he 
 mounted and rode on slowly, looking back 
 and only half satisfied to go, while Babe still 
 stood where he had left her, with her head 
 down. 
 
 She stood there listening until the last light 
 hoof-tread had died away. She then walked 
 slowly around the cabin to the mound behind it, 
 where the platform of boards glistened frosty in 
 the moonlight. Behind the cabin no one, looking 
 out by chance, could see her if she sat awhile and 
 tried to realize what it was she had done. How 
 would it be when her father came to question her 
 as to Bodewin's escape ? 
 
 The garret floor, once the boards were laid back 
 in their places, would tell no tales, but a young 
 
236 
 
 girl's countenance is not so safe a shield to put 
 before a secret. Her heart sank at the thought 
 of her father's eyes resting on her face, as they 
 had the night before, when he had scourged her 
 to bed with his brutal words. The threat, more 
 over, with which he had dismissed her that night 
 haunted her with a dread worse than that of any 
 imaginable death. It was an overmastering fear, 
 which made the night and the forest seem like 
 home to her, by comparison with the house where 
 her father and her brother lay asleep. Where 
 should she go, along that pathway, wide as the 
 gate and easy as the way of all desperate jour 
 neys? She tried her feet upon it, as it were. 
 They did not refuse to obey her. She walked 
 on, hardly aware how far she had gone on 
 the blind forest track Bodewiri had taken before 
 her. 
 
 On a sudden a thought she had dwelt on often 
 before asserted itself in the dull confusion of her 
 mind. She would see the face of that other girl 
 the dark-eyed, the chosen one. Perhaps she 
 might have sight of their happiness together. 
 After that, whatever came to her, it would be easy 
 to bear. 
 
 The resolve nerved her with sudden strength. 
 
ANOTHER OBLIGATION. 237 
 
 She walked on fast, with long, soundless steps. 
 Her head felt clear. Her journey had now an 
 object. By daybreak she would be on the edge 
 of the forest ; and then, by the nearest and lone 
 liest trail, she would find her way to the Eagle 
 Bird mine. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE PRICE OF BODEWIN's LIBERTY. 
 
 IT was evening of the day of Bodewin's return. 
 All that afternoon in Mr. Craig's office lie had 
 been in earnest consultation with Mr. Newbold 
 and his lawyer concerning the part he was to bear 
 in the coming trial. The consultation had warmed 
 into a discussion which was now closing with some 
 excitement on the part of both lawyer and client. 
 Bode win was quiet and evidently depressed, but 
 in a new and unexpected direction he was, as 
 Craig would have expressed it, as freaky and 
 mulish as ever. Mr. Craig felt entitled, in his 
 professional capacity, to his witness's full confi 
 dence. Bodewin, on the contrary, declined to 
 give any explanation of his late disappearance, 
 beyond the fact that he had been captured on the 
 road and forcibly detained. He carried his reti 
 cence to the point of making it a condition of his 
 voluntary presence at the trial, that he should not 
 
 238 
 
THE PRICE OF BODEWIN'S LIBERTY. 239 
 
 be questioned as to the place where he had been 
 kept a prisoner, or the authors of his detention. 
 All this mystery was excessively irritating to Mr. 
 Craig. 
 
 " Do you suppose I don't know what points to 
 bring out and what to leave alone ? " he asked 
 impatiently. " Tell me the whole story, and I 
 will know then what questions to ask you." 
 
 " I am not at liberty to tell the whole story to 
 you, Craig, or to any one else," Bodewin replied. 
 He hated to have to explain himself to Craig, 
 whose unfortunate manner always made Bodewin 
 forget that gentleman's numerous good and useful 
 qualities, but it was the only alternative to a pro 
 longed agitation of the subject of his testimony. 
 " You will have to forego the sensation my little 
 adventure might make in court. I was not set at 
 liberty ; I got off in the night but not without 
 help. I don't choose that the first use I make of 
 my freedom shall be to retaliate even indirectly 
 upon those who helped me to it. Harkins was at 
 the bottom of the whole thing, and we will beat 
 him at his own game. It would be childish now 
 to try to revenge ourselves for what is past, on 
 those who are merely his tools. This little epi 
 sode of my capture has no bearing on the case 
 
240 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 beyond its showing to what lengths Harkins will 
 go and what risks he will take to make his point. 
 But you would be giving yourself superfluous 
 trouble to show up Harkins. He is well enough 
 known, and so far from prejudicing a jury against 
 him, in my opinion, such a jury as you will be 
 likely to get would be immensely amused by the 
 whole thing, and look at it only as another daring 
 proof of his cleverness. My relations with Har 
 kins are getting somewhat complicated, I'll admit, 
 but they are after all my own affair. If you 
 meddle with them in court, Craig, let me tell you, 
 you'll be sorry for it." 
 
 " Confound it, Bodewin, this is the second time 
 you have intimated that you know my business 
 better than I do myself. Perhaps you would like 
 to be witness and counsel both." 
 
 Bodewin leaned back in his chair with his 
 hands deep in his pockets, and studied the lacing 
 of his shoes in silence. Mr. Newbold interposed 
 with the assurance that he, for his part, admired 
 Bodewin's magnanimity towards his enemies, and 
 would be the last one to try to overcome his scru 
 pulousness. 
 
 " They are not my enemies," Bodewin said. 
 
 "Are they your friends?" Craig retorted. 
 
THE PRICE OF BODEWIN'S LIBERTY. 241 
 
 " Come, now, Craig," said Mr. Newbold. " You 
 shall not badger your own witness. Keep that 
 tone for the Uinta men. If Mr. Bodewin is as 
 true to us as he is generous to those fellows who 
 plotted his abduction, we'll have no fault to find 
 with him." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Newbold, but you give me 
 too much credit," said Bodewin, coldly. " The 
 person or persons concerned in my escape had 
 nothing to do with my capture. As for my truth I 
 to you, sir, that means simply my truth to the 
 truth itself, in so far as your case represents it. It 
 means that, or else it means that I am a fool," he 
 added, bitterly. 
 
 Mr. Craig glanced at his client, as if to say, You 
 see what an uncomfortable fellow he is, take him 
 any way you like. 
 
 Bodewin rose and took up his hat. He was 
 conscious that he had been provoked into say 
 ing several extremely foolish things, and was 
 anxious to make his retreat before he said any 
 more. 
 
 " I shall stay up at the mine to-night, if Mrs. 
 Sammis can give me a bed," he said, addressing 
 himself to Mr. Newbold ; and mentally he resolved 
 that he would remain there until the camp had 
 
242 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 done asking questions and talking about him. 
 Something new would turn up in a day or two 
 a suicide, or a street fight, or a stage robbery, or a 
 rich strike of mineral to divert the public inter 
 est from his own affairs. 
 
 In the meantime he could get a better grasp 
 over his feelings towards Josephine. It was but 
 a month he had been missed from the little stage 
 of the camp, yet the parts might be all changed. 
 Hillbury and Josephine were perhaps even now 
 riding homewards in the sunset glow, after a long 
 gallop in the valley, as he and Josephine had 
 ridden a month ago. The explanation he had 
 longed to make his friend, as to the photograph 
 *and the cabin, was now impossible through his 
 promise to Babe the night of his escape. His 
 appearance on the witness-stand with Craig as a 
 questioner was seriously complicated by it. 
 
 Why under the heavens had he accepted Babe's 
 help? Was he such a fool as to have forgotten 
 that a man cannot take favors from a woman who 
 is fond of him unless he returns her fondness? Is 
 even a month's captivity enough to soften a man's 
 brains as well as his muscles? Dad and Tony's 
 rifles no longer restrained his movements, but he 
 was not a free man. His promise was scarcely 
 
THE PRICE OF BODEWIN'S LIBERTY. 243 
 
 twenty-four hours old, yet already he hated it 
 worse than he had hated his obligation to Har- 
 kins. For it was a promise to a woman, and a 
 woman whose circumstances, compared with his 
 own, made her peculiarly helpless. Harkins 
 could " get even " with him for the slighted 
 obligation, in his own way ; but Babe could take 
 no reprisals. These thoughts were passing through 
 his mind while Mr. Newbold was saying, " We 
 shall be most happy to have you, my dear fellow ; 
 we'll ride up together if you like." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," said Bodewin. 
 
 " I say, we'll ride up to the mine together, if 
 you've no objection," Mr. Newbold repeated. 
 
 "Are you stajdng at the mine?" Bodewin asked, 
 in surprise and some confusion. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Newbold. "We have given 
 up our rooms at the Wiltsie. Josephine disliked 
 the restaurant, and she insists that the Sammises 
 need the price of our board, especially as Sammis 
 will probably have to resign. He can't stay, of 
 course, if the mine goes into Harkins's hand, 
 though I have suspected that lately he has been 
 hedging a little; and if we get our case thanks 
 to you I shall want a different man . alto 
 gether." 
 
244 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Mr. Newbold and Bodewin had left the lawyer's 
 office and were now riding slowly up the street. 
 
 " I haven't seen Hillbury yet," Bodewin said. 
 " He must have got into his new quarters by this 
 time ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes so he has," said Mr. Newbold, 
 vaguely. " I believe Mr. Hillbury did say some 
 thing about his rock specimens the other evening. 
 He asked us to come down and look at them now 
 he has them all boxed and arranged." 
 
 "How is Hillbury?" asked Bodewin. 
 
 " Oh, he's all right, I guess. We haven't seen 
 much of him. He came up to the mine once or 
 twice : but to tell you the truth, my dear fellow, 
 we have been a house of mourning since you were 
 spirited away. My daughter has been well 
 she's been a little absurd about it, I tell her. She 
 seemed to feel that we were somehow accountable 
 for your fate, because it was on our side you were 
 going to testify. I couldn't feel that way myself, 
 but then women will think of more ingeniously 
 disagreeable things once they get low in their 
 minds . Josephine is a terrible hand to worry 
 if she thinks she, or any of her family, for that 
 matter, is to blame about anything," said Mr. 
 Newbold, feelingly. 
 
THE PKICB OF BODEWIN'S LIBERTY. 245 
 
 This phase of Josephine's melancholy was less 
 sweet to Bodewin than her sorrow would have 
 been, undiluted with self-blame, but it was enough 
 to set his heart at rest, so far as Hillbury was con 
 cerned. 
 
 As they passed a quiet corner near the assay 
 office, Bodewin saw Hillbury himself standing in 
 the door of the office. At the sight of his 
 friend's face and characteristic pose, guarded and 
 dignified even in its unconsciousness, a tender, 
 half-humorous enjoyment of him swelled in Bode- 
 win's heart. It gave him a certain surprise to 
 find how fond he was of Hillbury. His desire 
 of the moment was to jump off his horse and 
 seize upon Hillbury and assure him, "It is all 
 right about the cabin, all right about the pho 
 tograph, all right about everything; I cannot 
 explain, but you must have faith in me, old 
 fellow, as I would have in you if things looked 
 queer." 
 
 " Hullo, here is Hillbury ! " he called out joy 
 ously. " I'll catch up with you on the next 
 block," he said to Mr. Newbold, and turned his 
 horse's head sharply towards the sidewalk. Hill- 
 bury 's eyes kindled at sight of Bode win's face, 
 and then grew stern. 
 
246 
 
 " How are you, old man ? " said Bodewin, reach 
 ing a hand to him from his saddle. " You don't 
 look as if you had mourned for me much." 
 
 Hillbury's hands were in the side pockets of 
 his coat ; he kept them there, regarding Bodewin 
 calmly. Hillbury's habit of repression deceived 
 people as to his emotional capacity. At the mo 
 ment he was deeply disturbed, but no trace of his 
 inward struggle betrayed itself. 
 
 "I have mourned an old friend lately," he said, 
 
 I with a sad dignity of manner that sobered Bodewin 
 
 at once. "Can you tell me anything about him?" 
 
 " Is he a friend of mine ? " asked Bodewin, 
 speaking- bewilderedly the first words that came. 
 
 "He should be his name is John Bodewin. 
 I thought I saw him a week ago amusing himself 
 in an idyllic fashion in a cabin in the Lake woods ; 
 but as he once assured me there was no such 
 cabin, I must have been mistaken." 
 
 Bodewin returned Hillbury's look steadily. 
 " Were you looking for John Bodewin when you 
 saw him as you say ? " 
 
 " I was." 
 
 " Why did you go there to look for him ? To 
 find out if he was a liar and a scoundrel ? I'll tell 
 you where you were mistaken, Hillbury in call- 
 
247 
 
 ing a man you did not trust your friend. When j 
 you begin to suspect your friends, you will not! 
 lack trifles to confirm your suspicions." 
 
 " There may be a difference of opinion as to 
 what are trifles," Hillbury said. Bodewin looked 
 once more at his friend. His dark eyes softened 
 into no returning tenderness, though Bodewin's 
 eyes were smarting with a hot, shameful moisture. 
 The blow had cut him keenly. It was so unex 
 pected so coolly, neatly delivered Misunder 
 standings between friends are not always hopeless 
 things, especially when the friends are men, and 
 capable of reasoning even upon questions of feel 
 ing. But how to come to an explanation with 
 a man who is convinced that none is needed? 
 Well, let it go the friendship that has no foun 
 dation in faith is not worth the entreating for. 
 He had thought it seasoned timber that would 
 not give, but it had parted with the first strain. 
 So Bodewin tried to philosophize away his pain ; 
 but it stayed. It gnawed into his self-respect, not 
 an excessive virtue with Bodewin in his best 
 moods. It took all the sweet excitement out of 
 his meeting with Josephine. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A STAR IS HIDDEN. 
 
 THE low black aperture of a tunnel facing the 
 valley and the sunset gave entrance to the under 
 ground territory of the Eagle Bird. Work was 
 still going on in that portion of the mine not 
 undei dispute. All night and all day, at recur 
 rent intervals, the figure of a miner appeared at 
 the tunnel's mouth, pushing a loaded car along 
 the tramway to the dump. He came out at high 
 noon, when the sky glowed incandescent behind 
 the blackened boles of the pine trees, or when the 
 shadow of the range lay half across the valley, or 
 when the shadow had climbed the darkly wooded 
 slopes opposite, and above it the loftiest peaks 
 were entering solemnly into the glory of the sun's 
 down-sinking. The miner was still coming and 
 going, the roll of the car on the iron track was 
 still heard, when the stars twinkled sharply in the 
 long strips of sky between the pine trunks ; and 
 
 248 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 249 
 
 darkness, that all day lurked within the tunnel, 
 stalked forth and possessed the land. The roll of 
 the wheels, the clank of the bolt as the car reared 
 on its axle, and the dull crash of the avalanche 
 of earth and stones that followed, were sounds 
 that could be heard a long way off in the stillness 
 of the wood. 
 
 These were the sounds by which Babe knew 
 when she had reached the end of her journey. 
 She heard them first about sunset as she ap 
 proached the mine by the trail from the pass. She 
 had gone the long way round. Once only she had 
 stopped to rest, at the little ranch at the foot of 
 the pass, where the woman was still baking pies 
 in the outdoor oven for her wayfaring customers. 
 Babe was not a customer. She had merely 
 stopped to ask the way and the number of miles 
 to the Eagle Bird mine, where, she told the 
 woman, she had a brother employed as a miner. 
 Seeing that she looked tired, and mistaking the 
 expression of her face for that of physical suffer 
 ing, the woman urged Babe to sit and rest awhile, 
 and pressed her kindly to eat and drink. Babe 
 gratefully accepted a glass of cool milk and con 
 sented to put in her pocket a piece of bread which 
 she could not force herself to eat. The woman's 
 
250 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 questions, and fixed though not unfriendly obser 
 vation, troubled her, and shortened her rest. 
 When she came at last within sight and sound of 
 the mine it was still so light that she did not ven 
 ture beyond the thin shelter of the wood. She 
 lay down upon the ground to make herself 
 less conspicuous. Slowly the shadows crept from 
 the ground upward to the tree-tops, and a single 
 star showed in the deepening blue. There were 
 others in the sky, but this one only Babe looked 
 at, as with her head low on her arm she rested and 
 waited for darkness. Presently she saw a light at 
 the dump station other lights appeared in win 
 dows or moved about among the dark buildings. 
 
 The moon was an hour or more high. Babe 
 started up, aware that she must have fallen asleep 
 at the foot of the tree where she lay. She re 
 turned to the trail by which she had come, and 
 followed it past the tunnel and up the steep and 
 dusty path to the high-stooped house built against 
 the hill, which she had decided must be the dwell 
 ing of the superintendent. Here Mr. Newbold's 
 daughter would be lodged, if she were living at the 
 mine. Babe made no inquiries to assure herself of 
 the fact. One or two men (seated on the steps 
 of the miners' boarding-house) looked at her 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 251 
 
 curiously as she passed, but she was questioned 
 by no one. 
 
 An irregular pile of lumber was stacked close 
 to the side of the superintendent's house ; deep 
 shadow filled the space between. Babe crept in 
 over the boards, and climbed to a place where she 
 could look into a bright, uncurtained window of 
 the parlor. The room was empty. A lamp burned 
 on the centre-table and chairs were pushed out of 
 their places. From the sound of voices talking, 
 Babe concluded that the recent occupants of the 
 room were now assembled on the piazza outside. 
 She rose up cautiously and was groping her way 
 forward for a better view, stepping lightly along 
 the tiers of boards, when Bodewin and Josephine 
 came to the end of the porch and leaned side by 
 side on the railing above her. The moon shone 
 full in their faces. Both were gazing upwards, 
 their eyes fixed on one spot in the heavens. 
 
 Babe looked up at the same place in the sky, 
 but saw nothing more than the moon, nearly half 
 full, and close to her shadowed side a small, bright 
 star. It was this star Josephine and Bodewin 
 were watching, for from its position that night 
 they knew it must be near its occultation by the 
 moon. As the distance lessened imperceptibly 
 
252 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 between it and the undefined arc of shadow ap 
 proaching it, the star seemed to throb and flash, 
 red, gold, and sapphire, as if it were panting to 
 its extinction. If anything could have made 
 those two, standing in the light of heavenly bliss, 
 as it seemed to Babe, more hopelessly far away 
 from her, it was this mysterious, rapt attention 
 fixed upon some object which to her had no exis 
 tence. At first she thought they might be taking 
 some silent vow together, but then she heard 
 Josephine speaking, in a clear, even voice. 
 
 " It is only a little star, but we have looked at 
 it so long it see ins the only one in all the sky. 
 Has it a name, do you know?" 
 
 " I think it is Antares," Bodewin replied. 
 
 " Antares," Josephine replied, dwelling on the 
 vo welled syllable with satisfaction. " The occul- 
 tation of Antares ! How imposing it sounds. And 
 I suppose all the world is watching it with us to 
 night." 
 
 " We are the only watchers in this part of the 
 world, I fancy," said Bodewin, "except Hillbury, 
 perhaps," he added, sadly. His heart swelled with 
 the pain of love unspoken. Josephine's white- 
 clad shoulder was nearly touching his arm. If he 
 were to put it out and draw her to him it might 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 253 
 
 change both their lives forever. Yes, and it 
 might ruin his. Why should he not speak to her, 
 at least, and take his answer for life or death? 
 There was not an atom of his flesh that did not 
 worship her. And for his better part who had 
 ever appealed to that as she had done ? Had she 
 not found him in a slough of moral doubt and 
 sophistry, and shown him his duty, without ques 
 tion of her right, as if she knew instinctively that 
 she was born to be his soul's mistress and the light 
 of his dull, purposeless life? He was trembling 
 with the intoxicating risk of speech. Josephine's 
 eyes were still upon the star; her hand rested on 
 the rail. The impulse to cover it with his own 
 was so strong that for an instant he fancied he 
 must have done so involuntarily, for suddenly she 
 stepped back and dropped her eyes. 
 
 " It is gone ! " she said. " Did you see how at 
 the last it seemed to leap out of sight ? I am so 
 glad to have seen it; but now let us go in." 
 
 " Oh, no, not now ; stay until we see it again on 
 the other side." And silently he resolved that 
 before they saw the star again he would know his 
 fate. 
 
 " It will not seem like the same star when we 
 see it again," said Josephine ; " and if it did it 
 
254 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 would only be an anti-climax like Juliet coming 
 before the curtain after the death scene." 
 
 Her light, cool words confused Bodewin and 
 gave his passion a moment's check. Josephine 
 was leaning on her crossed arms gazing down into 
 the shadow cast by the pile of boards. Some ob 
 ject moving there had attracted her attention. 
 She had seen a head emerge, as it were, from that 
 well of darkness a head framed in moonlight, 
 the shadowed face invisible. The fair head of a 
 young woman who crouched among the boards 
 and looked upwards in a fixed agony of attention. 
 At the instant Josephine's eyes rested 011 it, the 
 head disappeared, but that brief look thrilled her 
 with the sensation of having long been watched 
 by some unknown person lurking in the darkness 
 below. 
 
 She turned to Bodewin and said softly, " Look ! 
 who is that?" pointing downwards with her white- 
 sleeved arm. "You will see her in a moment." 
 Again the head emerged ; this time it was bent and 
 hidden by a shawl. The moon had climbed a 
 little higher, and the shadow which had covered 
 Babe had shrunk away, and left her cowering 
 form exposed. It had stolen away so gradually 
 that, absorbed in her unhappy watch, she had not 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 255 
 
 been aware of its retreat. She was plainly 
 trapped, with the precipitous bank behind her, 
 the heap of boards on one side, and bright moon 
 light illuminating her only way of escape. If she 
 could gain the trail the dip of the ground would 
 hide her. She rose up, desperate, and with her 
 shawl muffling her head and face, walked out into 
 the light. 
 
 Bodewin had not seen the girl's face, and Babe, / 
 a moment before, had been far from his thoughts, 
 but something within him foreboded that this was 
 Babe Babe unhappy and desperate shelterless, 
 homeless, perhaps through her service to him. 
 Surely the figure, the height, the movement were 
 Babe's as she walked out into the light. 
 
 "I think I had better see who that is," he said. 
 " Excuse me a moment." 
 
 If he were to see who it was, there was no time 
 for ceremony. Josephine watched him down the 
 steps and across the moonlit space before the slope 
 of the hill hid him from her sight. She walked 
 up and down the piazza alone once or twice. She 
 stood and listened. The dead woods were still. 
 There were no insect voices calling. It stemed as 
 if she could almost hear Bodewin's retreating foot 
 steps pounding along down the trail. The rumble 
 
256 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 of a car running out from the tunnel drowned the 
 fainter sounds. The iron rails resounded as the 
 car travelled swiftly down the track. Was that a 
 man's voice calling in the woods ? Now came the 
 crash of the car-load over the dump. Why did 
 they stay so long at the dump-station? She 
 waited and listened mechanically for the roll of 
 the returning car-wheels. 
 
 Why did Bode win remain away so long and 
 why, in the meantime, was that car still waiting 
 at the dump-station ! She shivered and went 
 into the house. 
 
 Bodewin had caught sight of the figure he was 
 in chase of as it passed the light at the mouth of 
 the tunnel. She was running wildly; the shawl 
 had dropped from her head, and he saw that it 
 was Babe. Should he let her go ? He hesitated ; 
 then his heart smote him for the desolate young 
 figure flying to the woods for shelter like a 
 hunted creature. What man has not a tenderness 
 for the woman he suspects of a hopeless attach 
 ment to himself and Babe must be in trouble. 
 Perhaps she had come with an intention of asking 
 his help, and seeing him so preoccupied with 
 another woman, had in her mad, foolish pride 
 flung herself away from him into the night and 
 
A STAB IS HIDDEN. 257 
 
 the forest. She should not go in that way. He 
 had hesitated but an instant, and now followed 
 with greater speed, down the steep, dim slope 
 of the woods, slipping and stumbling. She was 
 still some distance ahead of him. Now she fell, 
 but was up and on again faster than before. He 
 was close upon her, had called her by name, when 
 she turned and looked back at him, motioned him 
 back with a gesture of her arm, and then, doub 
 ling suddenly, she flew along the unused trail 
 across the foot of the dump. It was scarcely 
 wider than a man's two hands. Bodewin heard 
 a car rumbling out from the tunnel " Babe ! " 
 he shouted. " Come back, for God's sake ! A 
 car is coming ! " 
 
 She was nearly half-way across the dump. 
 Bodewin called and waved his arms frantically to 
 the man above. The miner was running behind 
 his car, and the noise of its wheels drowned Bode- 
 win's cries. He started after Babe by the same 
 impossible path she had taken, but at that moment 
 the car reared on its pivot, and the avalanche 
 came. The greater mass of earth clung to the 
 slope of the dump, but stones and pieces of rock 
 leaped and pelted and bounded down the steep. 
 They fell all about Bodewin, but he was not 
 
258 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 conscious of being hurt. He slid off the trail, 
 
 and down among the ddbris below he crawled 
 
 about, searching for Babe. He found her lying 
 
 as she had been hurled from the path by the stone 
 
 j that struck her in the breast. He spoke to her as 
 
 , he raised her in his arms and asked if she knew 
 
 him. She assented with a motion of her head. 
 
 "Is there anything you wanted of me, Babe? 
 Tell it me now, if there is, before I go for help." 
 
 "I don't want help," she said, speaking with 
 short breaths of pain. " Nobody can help me." 
 
 "Don't say that, Babe. Where is your hurt?" 
 
 "It don't matter," she panted. "The hurt 
 don't matter. Come closer," She put up her 
 hand to his face. He bent lower to hear her 
 difficult sentences. " Say you won't tell who I 
 am ! " she whispered. " Let it be like I was a 
 stranger to you. If Dad finds me out he'll 'low 
 't I was folio win' after you. I never went back 
 that night I come on alone through the woods 
 but I never meant to give you trouble. I 
 'lowed to see her just once. Now I'm done. 
 This is the best way out of it. Only say you'll 
 be like you an' me was strangers ! Strangers " 
 > she repeated, and her voice broke from its hoarse 
 whisper into a cry. 
 
A STAK IS HIDDEN. 259 
 
 Boclewin shuddered. "Don't ask me that, 
 Babe, for God's sake ! That would be impossible. 
 You don't see how useless it would be. But, 
 child, you are not going to die." He spoke ( 
 wildly, with the horror upon him that she was | 
 dying already, and help so near. She did not 
 speak. Her eyes were losing their expression 
 her breast heaved strangely, and one hand that 
 lay on the ground moved like a wounded bird 
 struggling in the leaves. Bodewin knew that he 
 would give the promise. The cold sweat pricked 
 out upon his forehead as he stooped, his. lips close 
 to Babe's ear. 
 
 "We will be strangers, Babe. No one shall 
 ever hear of you from me not if it costs me my 
 good name," he groaned to himself. 
 
 Still she did not speak. Still the fluttering 
 hand and the long, struggling respirations. He 
 clasped her hand. " Babe, do you hear me ? " 
 The hand closed upon his and tightened with the 
 hold of death upon life. 
 
 The miners off duty for the night who were 
 lounging about the boarding-house steps, heard 
 Bodewin's cry as Josephine fancied she heard 
 it, piercing the rumble of the car. They discussed 
 the sound for a moment and then hurried down 
 
260 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 into the woods in the direction from which it 
 came. It was a lifeless burden they carried up 
 the hill. Bodewin walked behind it, wiping the 
 blood from his cheek where a stone had cut him, 
 making a slight wound. As they came out from 
 the blackened wood, and the sky arched clear 
 overhead, he looked up and saw Antares shining, 
 a point of light, close to the moon's bright side. 
 Bodewin did not yet know his fate. 
 
 Two hours afterwards Mr. Newbold sat on the 
 piazza with a cigar which he was trying to smoke 
 between his fingers. Josephine walked softly up 
 and down ; from time to time she looked at Bode 
 win, as he sat on the steps, his head between his 
 hands. No one had spoken for many minutes. 
 At last Josephine stopped behind her father's 
 chair. 
 
 " Papa, do you think I may see her before 
 they take her away ? " 
 
 " If you ask what I think I have told you al 
 ready it is no place for you." 
 
 "I should think it was any woman's place," 
 said Josephine. 
 
 " There have been women enough, Lord knows. 
 The room was full of them till the doctor turned 
 them all out." 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 261 
 
 Mr. Newbold's temper always suffered when his 
 sympathies were attacked. They had just been 
 subjected to an unusual shock. The affair, be 
 sides, was a most unfortunate one for the mine. 
 The Eagle Bird was notorious enough already, in 
 all unprofitable ways. 
 
 "Will they take her down to the camp to-night, 
 Bodewin ? " he asked, raising his voice a little that 
 it might penetrate Bodewin's abstracted mood. 
 " Yes," said Bodewin, without looking up. 
 " How will they take her, do you think ? " 
 " The undertaker's wagon, I suppose." 
 " Papa," said Josephine, laying her hands softly 
 upon his shoulders as she stood behind him, " why 
 do you let them take her away? Why not let 
 her friends find her here, among friends ? " 
 " What are you talking about, Josephine ? " 
 " I am asking you not to let that young girl be 
 taken down to the camp, for everybody to look 
 at. She was laid here at our door ; let us take 
 care of her." 
 
 " Don't be silly, Josephine. What do you call 
 our door? What have we to do with it, except to 
 regret it as a most shocking and unnecessary acci 
 dent? I don't myself understand yet how it 
 happened." Mr. Newbold cast an irritated glance 
 
262 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 towards the motionless figure on the steps. " Be 
 sides," he continued, jerking his chair forward a 
 little on the painted floor, "she has not been 
 identified. No one knows what sort of a story 
 she may have attached to her. It looks very 
 peculiar, to say the least." 
 
 Bodewin went down the steps and walked away 
 towards the stables. He had got his old horse 
 back again, with the scar on his hip from Tony 
 Keesner's bullet. He went out to him, as to the 
 only creature who could give him comfort that 
 night. The faithful old comrade who asked no 
 questions, who had never doubted or disowned his 
 friend. He felt for the bony white nose in the 
 darkness. Baldy recognized his master's step and 
 his touch, though he had not spoken. He greeted 
 him with sedate whinnyings, backing about in his 
 stall to show his readiness for a night-ride if his 
 master required it of him. 
 
 Josephine on the piazza was saying to her 
 father : " Papa, do you remember the cabin in 
 the woods I told you of, that Mr. Craig saw when 
 he was lost, and the wonderfully pretty girl ? 
 Is this girl beautiful?" 
 
 "Remarkably beautiful, I should say, for that 
 class of girl." 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. 263 
 
 " There cannot be so many such beautiful girls 
 in a place like this." 
 
 " She may not belong to this place." 
 
 " Papa, I think I must see her. She might be 
 the same one, you know." 
 
 "I should think Craig would be the best judge 
 of that. He will see her to-morrow. However, 
 there is nothing to prevent your seeing her, if 
 you want to, only don't ask me to go with 
 you." 
 
 " Is any one with her ? " asked Josephine. 
 
 " I believe there are some men waiting in the 
 office. They have put her in the next room 
 Reed's bedroom. By George, if I were Reed, I 
 shouldn't half like it." 
 
 Josephine went down to the door of the office 
 and knocked. Two or three men within ceased 
 talking as she entered. One of them rose and 
 laid down his cigar. This was Mr. Reed, the as- 
 sayer and engineer of the mine. 
 
 " I came to see the young girl who was killed," 
 Josephine said hurriedly, feeling half ashamed 
 of the intention, now she was about to carry it 
 out. 
 
 " The body is in here, Miss Newbold, please 
 excuse the looks of the room," Mr. Reed said 
 
264 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 % 
 
 politely, as he opened the door. He was about 
 to follow her in, when she hurriedly thanked him 
 and begged to be allowed to go in alone. 
 
 It was a small room with a low board ceiling, 
 painted white ; the walls were merely wooden 
 partitions, covered with hangings of a dark-red 
 calico. Half of the room was occupied by the 
 bed. A lamp on the floor behind it threw its 
 shadow hugely over the wall and up on the ceiling 
 above. In this shadow Josephine saw a motion 
 less woman's form, partly covered by a shawl. The 
 dust of the pass and the soot of the burnt forest 
 were on her garments. Her travel-worn shoes 
 were on her feet. As to her beauty there was no 
 doubt. She lay on her back, at her fair length, 
 her face turned a little aside showing the curve 
 beneath the chin and the straightened line of 
 neck behind the ear. The shadow of long lashes 
 hid the sightless parting of the lids. Her long 
 braids of hair, golden, with a silver light on it, 
 were brought forward across her flattened shoul 
 ders, following the curve of her breasts and slip 
 ping out of sight between her arms and grandly 
 sloping hips. There was all the tacit, slumbering 
 pride of Babe's personality in her death-pose. A 
 princess lying in state could not have mutely com- 
 
A STAR IS HIDDEN. ^ 265 
 
 manded more respect than this victim of ill-condi 
 tions at the climax of her life's defeat. 
 
 It was impossible not to feel that some rem 
 nant of consciousness must linger here to suffer 
 from the intrusion of a stranger's pity. It gave 
 Josephine an almost hysterical sensation to think, 
 of the crowds that to-morrow would press around! 
 this form of sacred maidenhood, and stare at its 
 beauty, and wonder at its history. Something 
 that was not love nor pity, only a blind yearning 
 of the human towards the human, across the im 
 passable barrier, drew the living girl close to the 
 dead. She laid her arms on each side of her, on 
 the bed, her heart beating close above the one 
 that was still, her breath warm on the white, half- 
 averted face. She uttered no sound, but incohe 
 rent sobbing exclamations were struggling in her 
 breast. The link between the lives of these two 
 women, strangers to each other and subject alike 
 to conditions others had made for them, was only 
 made stronger by Babe's death. 
 
 Josephine stood awhile outside of the office 
 door, looking out into the gray, melancholy moon 
 light. She saw Bodewin at a little distance, com 
 ing towards the house from the stables, walking 
 unsteadily, with his head down. His unconscious 
 
266 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 figure seemed to bring upon her, all at once, a 
 sense of all the unknown human misery that 
 presses upon young lives and brings a sudden 
 home-sickness in the midst of friends, and a pang 
 of loneliness to the summer night. She burst 
 into tears. Bode win had seen her. He saw that 
 she was weeping. He came to her quickly and 
 took her hand in his. He knew where she had 
 been. 
 
 " Don't cry so," he said. " There is so much 
 trouble in this world that is worse than death." 
 
 " I know it I feel as if there was trouble 
 all around us to-night." She began to sob 
 again. 
 
 "Not your trouble, I hope," he said, and then 
 he murmured helplessly, " God bless you ! " He 
 lifted her hand and kissed it. The action startled 
 her into stillness. 
 
 " Will you look at me ? " he asked, still holding 
 her by the hand. " Can you see my face ? " he 
 turned it to the light. 
 
 "Yes," she said, trembling. 
 
 " Do I look like a man you could believe in, if 
 his best friend deserted him, if he were hunted 
 for a villain ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Josephine again. 
 
A STAE, IS HIDDEN. 267 
 
 His hand closed hard upon hers. " God bless 
 you," he said again. 
 
 He walked beside her in silence to the steps of 
 the porch, then he looked good-night or good-bye 
 without speaking and left her. She saw him go 
 back to the door of the office and sit down on the 
 low step, in the moonlight. 
 
 "He does not know her," she said to herself; 
 " yet, if he looks so when I am dead, I shall be 
 satisfied." 
 
 She went to her room and lay upon her bed, 
 in the white soft dress she had put on that even 
 ing because it was one of the dresses she had 
 always been happy in, and Bodewin had come 
 home. She lay there, too miserable to light her 
 lamp and undress herself; but at twelve o'clock 
 the rattle of a wagon coming up the hill roused 
 her. It stopped before the office door. Josephine 
 sat up in bed, shuddering. She made the room 
 light, drew her curtains close, and began hurriedly 
 to take off her clothes. Her face was as pale as 
 the sheets when she lay down in her bed again, 
 leaving the lamp still burning. 
 
 She heard sounds below her window. Voices 
 and footsteps of men, the grating of a heavy box 
 pushed over the floor of the wagon, the click of 
 
268 JOHN BODE WIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 the spring as the tail-board shut. The wagon 
 drove away. 
 
 Bodewin walked behind it down the hill, and 
 watched it out of sight along the dim, dusty, 
 moonlit road to the camp. 
 
CHAPTER XXL 
 
 A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 
 
 CROWDS came and went the next day and 
 looked at Babe, and no one spoke her name. No 
 one came from the cabin in the wood. Mr. Craig 
 had gone to Denver by the stage at four o'clock, 
 before the Eagle Bird tragedy was generally 
 known in the camp. There were two men who 
 recognized her, but each, for his own reasons, 
 kept the knowledge to himself. One was Har- 
 kins, who had arrived that morning by private 
 team from the railroad terminus; the other was 
 Hillbury. He had heard the particulars of the 
 accident from Mr. Newbold. 
 
 " And Bodewin says he does not know her," he 1 
 mused gloomily, when the story was finished. 
 
 "He does not say much of anything," Mr. 
 Newbold replied, " but it is evident that he does 
 not know her. It was a shocking thing for him. 
 She was killed before his very face." 
 
 "Why did he follow her?" 
 
270 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " She was lurking around the house, as if she 
 had some business she wanted to keep to herself. 
 My daughter saw her first, crouching down among 
 some boards close to the parlor windows. She 
 pointed her out to Bodewin, who was on the 
 piazza with her. The girl ran off when she found 
 sho was discovered, and Bodewin followed her, 
 very naturally, I think. Haven't you seen Bode 
 win to-day?" 
 
 " No," said Hillbury. 
 
 " Well, I'm not surprised he don't want to talk 
 about it. He is all 'broke up,' as they say out 
 here. Harkins is in town, I hear. Came in his 
 usual splendor. Pete Harrison's barouche and 
 best team ordered by telegraph to meet him at 
 the end of the track." 
 
 " Yes, I saw his arrival." 
 
 "I suppose he has come to look up his 'affidavit 
 men,' as Sammis calls them, for the trial." 
 
 Hillbury gave Mr. Newbold a sudden look. 
 He wondered if that amiably discursive gentle 
 man could be aware that he had himself received, 
 that morning, a summons to appear, under penalty 
 of the law, as a witness for the Uinta against the 
 Eagle Bird. 
 
 Colonel Harkins had arrived in the morning. 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 271 
 
 He had followed the stream of . excitement to the 
 undertaker's rooms and had looked at Babe, as 
 Hillbury had looked at her, in silence. In the 
 afternoon he ordered a horse saddled and rode 
 away over the hills alone, to look at a " prospect " 
 he had thought of buying for some Eastern 
 parties, so he said. The way of his " prospect " 
 was the way to the Keesner cabin, but before 
 he came in sight of it he stopped and looked and 
 listened intently, to make sure he was the only 
 traveller in that part of the forest. While he was 
 taking this precaution, he was aware of a horse's 
 tread, muffled on the sodden pine-needles, but 
 approaching distinctly from the direction of the 
 pass. Harkins began whistling and looking 
 about him at the trees, as if considering their 
 value as timber. The horseman proved to be 
 Tony Keesner, Tony, more down-looking and 
 sullen than usual, with a fierce spot of light in 
 each of his narrow black eyes fixed on the distance. 
 
 " Tony is trailin' somebody," Harkins com 
 mented, quietly watching his approach. 
 
 Tony was in the mood to resent the unexpected 
 appearance even of a friend. He transferred the 
 gleam in his eyes from the indefinite distance to 
 Harkins's face, without a change of expression. 
 
272 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "How are you, Anthony?" said Harkins, in a 
 soft, grave voice. "How's the cabin, and how's 
 all the folks?" 
 
 " Cabin's empty, all but Dad," Tony replied. 
 
 "What have you done with the rest of the 
 family?" Harkins asked. 
 
 Tony appeared to swallow something hard in 
 his throat. It might have been rage it could 
 not have been tears. " They're clean gone ; they 
 lit out together las' night. I been huntin' 'em 
 sence sun up ; I been clear over the pass to Fair- 
 play." 
 
 "You're off the scent, Tony. You're all off. 
 I'm just from camp. Bodewin's there, sloshin' 
 round as cool as quicksilver ; and Babe is there. 
 Tony, I've got some advice to give you and the 
 old man, but I want to hear from you first. How 
 
 did this thing happen ? You must 'a' been d 
 
 careless." 
 
 They rode on slowly, side by side, towards the 
 cabin, talking earnestly, Tony in quick, hard 
 sentences, dropping like hailstones in the rain 
 of Harkins's words. As they dismounted in front 
 of the cabin and looked about them, each uttered 
 in his own manner his favorite formula of pro- 
 The corral was empty, the cabin door 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 273 
 
 was shut ; the young setter dog howled and leaped 
 against the door when he heard footsteps outside, 
 but no voice from within bade him be quiet. A 
 scrap of soiled white paper fluttered from the 
 crack of the door, in which it had been wedged 
 with a splinter of wood. 
 
 Harkins jerked out the wedge and handed the 
 paper to Tony, with the question " Is that the 
 old man's fist?" 
 
 Tony acknowledged his father's handwriting. 
 It addressed him briefly, as follows : 
 
 "Tony I got word of her she aint livin I am goen down to 
 Camp to clame the boddy." 
 
 Both men swore again, as if it were a kind of 
 rite each felt bound to go through with, under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 "How did he go? Has he got a horse?" 
 Harkins asked sharply. 
 
 "Yes," said Tony, without moving his eyes 
 from the paper in his hand. "He's took the 
 black." 
 
 "Git after him, then, quick as you can! He 
 couldn't have got word before noon. He's not to 
 show himself in camp or to open his head till 
 I'm ready for him. Understand? Tell him if he 
 
274 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 busts up my scheme again with his nonsense I'll 
 
 see every mine he's got in , and himself, too, 
 
 before I'll touch one of 'em. Look sharp now ! 
 Yousabe?" 
 
 Harkins delivered these words in his low utter 
 ance, commanding Tony with his eyes as well as 
 his voice. Harkins had eyes with a heavy fold 
 of the lid projecting over them; ophidian eyes, 
 with a sluggish power in them which better men 
 than Tony Keesner had defied to their cost. 
 
 Tony hesitated " You understand we've got 
 to. get even with Bodewin. It ain't waitin' and 
 talkin' that'll do it," he said. 
 
 Harkins cursed him. " Haven't I got to get 
 
 even with him? Do as I tell you, or by I'll 
 
 have the sheriff after the old man and you too. 
 You know who you're talkin' to ! " 
 
 Tony knew. He put spurs to his horse and 
 galloped away into the woods. 
 
 Mrs. Craig had asked Josephine to stay with 
 her during Mr. Craig's absence, or until Miss 
 Newbold herself left the camp with her father 
 on their homeward journey, which was to include 
 Denver and the trial. Josephine had gladly ac 
 cepted the invitation for its own sake, and also 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 275 
 
 because she wished to get away from the mine. 
 The light comedy of Mrs. Craig's manner, her 
 domestic confidences and foolish little household 
 jokes, combined with her real sensitiveness and 
 tact, were happily curative in their effect upon 
 Josephine's excited nerves. She found herself 
 laughing weakly, like a fever convalescent, on 
 small occasion. It was a relief to talk about 
 clothes, to put on her prettiest dresses for Mrs. 
 Craig's benefit, and to experiment with her back 
 hair at that lady's suggestions. She gave herself 
 up to be petted and admired, as only a woman can 
 pet and admire another woman who represents to 
 her what her own youth has been or might have 
 been. More than all was it a relief to hear Mrs. 
 Craig talk about Bodewin in a frank, common 
 place way which took away something of the 
 painful mystery Josephine's imagination had sur 
 rounded him with ever since his return. Mrs. 
 Craig laughed at the idea of anything formidable 
 connected with his reticence about his late adven 
 ture. " My dear, Bodewin is just like those little 
 land ' turtles,' we used to call them when we were 
 children. We used to catch them and knock on 
 their shells and call to them to put out their 
 heads; and, of course, they pulled them in as 
 
276 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 tight as they could squeeze. Depend upon it, 
 your father and my husband, begging their par 
 dons, have been knocking Bodewin on the shell 
 and calling to him to put out his head. I know 
 just how Joe and Bodewin are, together; they 
 each bring out the other's most unpleasant traits. 
 If we could have got Bodewin to ourselves when 
 he first returned, I am perfectly certain we should 
 know the whole story by this time. Bodewin isn't 
 a man's man. I don't mean that he isn't a manly 
 man. But he was born to be led by women 
 into trouble, and out of it. If only one woman 
 could get him into permanent trouble by marry 
 ing him, and so keep him out of insane and pro 
 miscuous trouble, it would be a great relief to 
 my mind. Bodewin isn't a bit of a genius that 
 I know of, but I always feel for him that kind of 
 unreasoning tenderness that geniuses and wilful, 
 lovable children always inspire, a predisposition 
 which has no justice in it. I know that Bode- 
 win's wife, if he had one, would have ever so 
 much to forgive ; but she would dote on his very 
 faults." 
 
 "Perhaps if you had ever tried- " Josephine 
 began, and stopped, coloring suddenly. 
 
 " Being the wife of a genius ? " laughed Mrs. 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 277 
 
 Craig. "Oh, my dear," she continued, with a 
 slightly exaggerated gayety, "don't you know 
 those little, reddish-blond men are all geniuses ? 
 Born to blush unseen, many of them, but that is 
 an accident of fate." Mrs. Craig was talking 
 recklessly, under the unwonted excitement of 
 having another woman of surprising congeniality 
 to listen to her. She would repent before she 
 slept of half that she said to Josephine during the 
 day, and then proceed to pile up more food for 
 repentance the next day. Of two women who 
 are intimate, as a rule, one talks and the other 
 listens. Josephine listened and wondered a little, 
 but was greatly amused and on the whole com 
 forted and led away from her own unaccountable 
 unhappiness. 
 
 Mrs. Craig was not so occupied with talking to 
 Josephine that she did not see there was a change 
 in her, since the early days of her visit to the 
 camp. She was more interesting, more compli 
 cated. Has she had an experience, her hostessj 
 speculated ; has she taken one of those sudden 
 leaps of development girls of her age are subject 
 to ; or is it because she is away from home for the 
 first time, in this exciting, consuming climate, 
 among conditions altogether strange to her? Or 
 
278 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 is it because Bodewin never comes to ask her to 
 ride in the valley ? 
 
 Mrs. Craig was not so easy in her mind about 
 Bodewin as she professed to be. And Hillbury, 
 who had hitherto in her knowledge bf him been 
 the most sane and satisfactory of men, had de 
 veloped an idiosyncrasy on his own account to 
 match the general absurdity of things. He too, 
 while hovering near them, avoided them as if 
 under a vow. 
 
 The quarters of the government survey were 
 not far from the Craig cabin. Mr. Hillbury was 
 obliged to pass its door on his walks to and from 
 the camp, unless he abandoned the ditch-walk for 
 the woods. He thus found frequent occasion to 
 bow to Josephine as she sat on the steps of the 
 porch in the morning, the reflection from the 
 sunny walk making her dark eyes luminous under 
 the shade of her hat, or at evening, in the glow of 
 sunset, her hands and arms bare to the elbows 
 gleaming white in her lap. Sometimes he yielded 
 to a reluctant fascination, and came across the foot 
 bridge for a few words with her, or even took a 
 seat on the step below her, with the half-protest 
 ing 'air of one who owes it to himself to resist a 
 pleasure within reach. But he never went in. 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 279 
 
 Mrs. Craig, amused and puzzled by his cautious 
 attitude, teased him a little with playfully reiter 
 ated invitations ; but Hillbury kept his outward 
 defences secure against all her neighborly assaults 
 and the more subtly undermining influence of 
 Josephine's repose, a repose unlike the bright 
 directness of her manner as he recalled his first 
 impressions of her. Hillbury would not have 
 permitted himself to use the word in speaking 
 of a girl like Josephine, but it was a repose 
 charged with passion, as electricity slumbers in 
 still, deeply colored evening skies. She talked 
 little, but there was a divine intelligence in her ( 
 face. ' Her movements were softer, she carried 
 herself less unconsciously, her very hands had a 
 different expression. Her eyes were less widely 
 opened, and even when they rested upon indiffer 
 ent things were full of an anxious tenderness. 
 When they rested upon Hillbury he looked away 
 and his blood behaved in a manner which would 
 have interfered with the simplest scientific in 
 quiry. Hillbury kept himself well under his own 
 supervision, and these warnings did not escape 
 his stern insight, but there were times when he 
 rebelled against himself and asked himself why 
 he had not an equal right with other men to make 
 
280 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 a fool of himself. Had he not already made a 
 fool of himself about a man ; why not then about 
 a woman ? The privilege of being inconsistent 
 and probably unhappy was denied him by no one 
 but himself. There were other stirrings and 
 questionings in Hillbury's mind at this time. 
 The unlaid ghost of his affection for Bodewin 
 daily and nightly troubled his peace. On his 
 way home along the ditch-walk one evening, 
 close upon the eve of the trial, Hillbury's mind 
 being full of that coming event, he was aware of 
 a man standing on the foot-bridge opposite the 
 Craig cabin, in an attitude that was painfully 
 familiar. Hillbury approached more closely, and 
 stopped when he had reached the bridge. 
 
 " Bodewin," he said, " may I have a few words 
 with you?" 
 
 u ls that you, Hillbury? You know me then 
 once more. That is kind of you." 
 
 Hillbury was not discouraged by the tone of 
 Bodewin's words. " It is possible," he began, 
 and his fine accent and dispassionate manner at* 
 that moment were peculiarly irritating to Bode 
 win's morbid sensitiveness, " that I may have 
 done you some injustice in certain unhappy con 
 clusions that have lately been forced upon me. 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 281 
 
 There is strong evidence against you. I have had 
 to admit to myself that it is very strong. But I 
 find I have an obstinate sentiment towards you, 
 which does not rest on evidence. It is this senti 
 ment which appeals to you now. I hope the ap 
 peal may not come too late. It should never 
 be too late to acknowledge a wrong. Have I 
 wronged you, Bode win? You only can tell me 
 if I have." 
 
 Hillbury waited for some sign from Bodewin. 
 None came that could be interpreted as an answer 
 to his appeal. 
 
 " Are you unwilling to confide in me ? Do you 
 consider the suffering you may be causing those 
 who care for you, by a reticence that leaves such 
 grave questions unanswered ? " 
 
 " You say you have a sentiment still left for me 
 which does not rest upon evidence ? " 
 
 "I have. I have been suffering from it for 
 many days." 
 
 " God prosper it, then, or else kill it quickly," 
 said Bodewin, rather wildly. " I have no evidence 
 to give you." 
 
 " You have nothing to say to me, then ? " 
 
 " Are you my friend, did you say? " 
 
 " Are you an honest man ? " 
 
282 
 
 "Hillbury," said Bodewin, in his more natural 
 manner, " I would that all men were as honest as 
 I am, except these bonds." 
 
 " What bonds ? " 
 
 " That I cannot tell you." 
 
 " There are bonds our sins make for us ; there 
 are other bonds which come from our duties. Are 
 ' you in bondage to your body or your soul ? " 
 
 "Do you expect me to answer your ghostly 
 conundrums ? Wait, and they will answer them 
 selves," said Bodewin, with a return of his bitter 
 flippance. 
 
 Hillbury looked at him sadly, trying in vain to 
 read the expression of his face in the imperfect 
 light, and then went On his way, past the cabin 
 where Mrs. Craig and Josephine sat by the fire 
 and talked of the coming trial. 
 
 " You must be sure to go ! " Mrs. Craig was 
 saying. " I'll never forgive you if you don't take 
 the trouble to go and hear Joe's speech. It is a 
 privilege his wife is debarred from because she is 
 also the mother of his children; and there is 
 Bodewin's testimony. How strange it is that 
 he hasn't been near us ! " she exclaimed, suddenly 
 forgetting her caution of many days. 
 
 Josephine's sigh echoed the word as she went 
 
A MEETING IN THE WOOD. 283 
 
 to th'e window and looked out. The water wim 
 pled along darkly under the bridges and past the 
 lighted windows. Bodewin still hung over the 
 bridge rail where Hillbury had left him. His 
 bitterness against Hillbury was intensified by the 
 knowledge that to him in his calm deliberateness 
 were open all the opportunities he felt obliged to 
 deny himself, living, as he was, in the shadow of 
 vengeance. His bonds were heavy upon him. It 
 was incredible to him that Babe had not been 
 publicly recognized. It was incredible that her 
 father's or her brother's bullet had so long been 
 delayed. Bodewin knew the class of men they 
 belonged to. He knew their unappeasable pride 
 of vengeance ; whether it would take the usual 
 form of a bullet delivered at sight or a shameful 
 story that would pursue him with a more deadly 
 aim, or both bullet and scandal, he could only 
 conjecture. In the meantime there was the trial, 
 with Mr. Craig as counsel for the Eagle Bird. 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 THE case of the Uinta versus Eagle Bird was 
 called in the afternoon. Mr. Newbold came back 
 to his hotel to dinner that evening in high good 
 humor. Harkins had made no fight at all, to 
 speak of. He had rested his case on the records 
 which Bodewin was ready to prove were not the 
 true and original ones. His lawyer had talked 
 through his nose and put his case before the jury 
 in a slipshod way, on what he called its merits, 
 without giving himself the trouble to make a 
 speech. Thus said Mr. Newbold to Josephine, 
 playing with her coffee-spoon, and dubious as to 
 this easy victory. This was not the way, surely, by 
 which Harkins had won his ill-omened reputation. 
 
 Josephine dressed herself to go into court with 
 her father on the second day of the trial, with a 
 nervous foreboding that it was to be one of the 
 memorable days of her life. Her travelling dress, 
 
 which she would have chosen to wear for its 
 
 284 
 
THE TKIAL. 285 
 
 plainness, had received hard usage in the moun 
 tains. She put on instead the black satin with a 
 dark shimmer of beads over the front, which she 
 had worn the evening Bodewin had been presented 
 to her. A little bonnet of gold-colored straw in 
 closed the crown of her head, and was tied under 
 the chin with black velvet strings. She was 
 buttoning her gloves, and getting very red in the 
 cheeks while doing it, when a servant knocked 
 with a note for her and a message from her father 
 that he waited for her in the ladies' parlor. 
 
 " Tell him I am coming in a minute," she said, 
 opening the note. " Oh, wait, please ; is an an 
 swer wanted to this?" 
 
 " No answer, miss," the man replied, closing the 
 door softly. 
 
 The note was written in a masculine hand 
 Josephine did not remember ever to have seen 
 before. She knew Bodewin's close, angular char 
 acters and Mr. Craig's legal scrawl. She had no 
 other acquaintances in the town, that she knew of. 
 The words of the note were : 
 
 11 If Miss Newbold would not miss a scene of peculiar inter 
 est to herself for other reasons than those connected with her 
 father's pocket, she will not fail to be in the court-room 
 to-day." 
 
286 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 The note was not signed. Josephine tore it up 
 with the sensation of having received an insult, 
 and dropped the pieces into a tall china jar that 
 stood by her toilet bureau. She took up a fan, 
 somewhat too heavily perfumed, and began fan 
 ning herself absently. It was nine o'clock in the 
 morning, but the sun was already hot in the street 
 outside. The windows of her room were open, 
 the blinds darkened, and the noise of continuous 
 passing came in as she had often heard it at home, 
 when they stayed in town after the summer heats 
 began ; only, instead of the heavy jar and rattle 
 from the pavements, it was the more exciting rush 
 of light wheels, and the pounding of hoofs on a 
 hard, resonant road. Perhaps, she said to herself 
 tremulously, it would be better she should not go 
 into court that day ; but could she miss this 
 chance, perhaps the last one, of seeing Bodewin ! 
 
 " What a color you have got ! " her father said, 
 looking at her as if taking, for the first time, a 
 dispassionate view of her appearance. 
 
 "These hot strings always make my face flush." 
 
 Josephine put up her hand to the bow of her 
 bonnet-strings, lifting her chin and letting her 
 lashes fall. 
 
 "Why don't you wear something different?" 
 
I 
 THE TRIAL. 287 
 
 " This is the only bonnet I have here. 
 
 " Wear a hat then," Mr. Newbold suggested. 
 
 " A bonnet is the proper thing, papa. It is 
 more conservative." 
 
 44 If you want to be conservative, the thing to 
 do is to stay at home." 
 
 44 1 promised Mrs. Craig I would hear her hus 
 band's speech," said Josephine, blushing at her 
 own insincerity. 
 
 44 Craig can't make a speech worth listening 
 to ! You will have to write her a lot of lies 
 about it." 
 
 44 Papa, I wish to go. I have always intended 
 to go, since we first talked of the case. It cannot 
 be so very unusual, or Mrs. Craig would not have 
 asked me - " 
 
 " Come on then ; but, by George ! " Mr. 
 Newbold left his sentence unfinished, except by 
 another look of rueful admiration at his daughter. 
 
 Mr. Craig in his opening speech gave a brief 
 history of the dispute from the side of the de 
 fence, and said the defence would prove that the 
 records by which the mine had been sold to Mr. 
 Newbold were copies of the true and original 
 ones; that the record of the original survey 
 
288 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 would be produced in evidence and sworn to by 
 the man who made it. He continued, that they 
 could not prove the existing record on file to 
 have been wilfully altered, but they could prove 
 that the plaintiff had had an opportunity so to 
 alter it, and they could also show the plaintiff to 
 have been the author of a measure quite as arbi 
 trary and illegal as the altering of loosely kept 
 public records. They could prove that he had 
 caused a man, travelling peaceably on the public 
 highway, to be seized and forcibly detained out of 
 reach of his friends, or of communication with 
 them, at a time when that man's liberty of action 
 was inconvenient to the plaintiff. Colonel Har- 
 kins at this point in his opponent's argument rose 
 and left the court-room, returning with the Kees- 
 ners, father and son, preceding him, with a noise 
 of heavy boots, to seats near his own. The elder 
 Keesner was instantly recognized by a number of 
 people in the court-room. Mr. Craig had alluded 
 to him in his speech as one of Harkins's " affidavit 
 men," who had conveniently disappeared when 
 the sale of the mine in his name had been accom- 
 ! plished. His reappearance was regarded as a sign 
 that Harkins had something in reserve for which 
 the unexpected feebleness of his attack had been 
 
THE TRIAL. 289 
 
 but a blind an impression which made itself 
 felt in an agreeable stir of revived interest. 
 
 Jim Keesner's long, wolfish visage looked hag 
 gard in the strong light, among faces which 
 showed better conditions. Tony's face was not 
 generally known, but it excited attention for its 
 sullen, picturesque beauty. As he took his seat, 
 his head came between Josephine and her view 
 of Bodewin, sitting at a distance, across the room. 
 She had only ventured to look once at Bodewin, 
 and had not been able to guess from the expres 
 sion of his lowered eyes and pale set profile what 
 his frame of mind might be. 
 
 The Keesners had entered the court-room with 
 that exaggerated sense of isolation under observa 
 tion which persons unused to a large assemblage 
 of people are apt to have, appearing in one under 
 circumstances momentous to themselves. Tony 
 kept his eyes down, under an impression that 
 everybody in the room was looking at him. 
 When at length he raised them, with a forced 
 air of defiant indifference, he met Josephine's 
 eyes fixed upon him in wondering, startled recog 
 nition. 
 
 The expression of her face meant nothing to 
 him. He only felt its beauty, with a shock of 
 
290 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 his savage blood as he had felt it for the first 
 time on the rocks in the blinding sunlight of 
 Mike's claim. He hated her for making him 
 feel the distance between them. He hated Bode- 
 win for being the man who had sat at her side 
 on the rocks and talked' to her with a fulness 
 and ease of expression which might be supposed 
 to please women but could only excite the con 
 tempt of men. 
 
 Josephine was no longer looking at or appar 
 ently conscious of him. Since it was out of his 
 power to produce any other kind of impression 
 upon her, he fell into visions of how he might 
 hurt her with brute force. How he might press 
 the color out of her cheeks with his two hard 
 hands and see it rushing back again with helpless 
 tears to the proud dark eyes. He could see the 
 shape of her arms defined by her close-fitting 
 dress, as she sat opening and shutting her fan. 
 He shuddered slightly and set his teeth, imagining 
 himself crushing their firm roundness in his grip. 
 
 Mr. Craig was closing his speech. " Gentle 
 men," he was saying to the jury, "what we are 
 obliged to do is to consider the character of the 
 plaintiff in the light of this most characteristic 
 deed. Bear in mind, it was not done as to John 
 
THE TRIAL. 291 
 
 Bodewin, but as to any man whom the plaintiff 
 wished temporarily to get out of his way. Had 
 he desired to get him out of his way permanently, 
 doubtless means would have been found to accom 
 plish it. If either you or I, gentlemen, should, in 
 the peaceful conduct of our affairs, be so unfortu 
 nate as to get in the plaintiff's way, we might 
 expect to be disposed of as summarily as our 
 witness was disposed of. The plaintiff is well 
 known, wherever speculation in mines is carried 
 on$ as a man whom it is not only useless but 
 dangerous to balk in the accomplishment of his 
 schemes. Why? Because he has no scruples 
 that interfere with his pursuit of other men's 
 property. He belongs to the predatory class of 
 men. He has no responsibilities as to his future, 
 or regrets as to his past. He glories in his 
 successful crimes. He boasts of the power he 
 claims to have of bending even the law to his 
 purposes. Are we preparing for him another /if 
 triumph of this kind? We are Western men;ij 
 we want to encourage Eastern capitalists to seek 
 investments in the West. One way to do it will ' 
 be to show them that their investments in the I/ 
 West can and will be protected by the West, j 
 The misfortune of one Eastern property-owner 
 
292 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 will be a warning to a hundred others. It is 
 just such men as the plaintiff in this suit and 
 not many like him would be needed to do it 
 who ruin the business of legitimate mining in the 
 West." 
 
 Another ill-omened pair of eyes had dwelt upon 
 Josephine's face during a greater portion of the 
 time Mr. Craig was speaking. Colonel Harkins 
 considered himself a judge of female beauty, and 
 decided on deliberate inspection that Josephine's 
 charms had not been overstated by rumor. He 
 was looking at her when Mr. Craig unexpectedly 
 brought forth the words, "Bear in mind, it was 
 not done as to John Bodewin." The Colonel 
 was not a sensitive observer, but he could not 
 fail to see that Josephine's face turned scarlet, 
 as if her own name had been suddenly called in 
 court in an oratorical tone of voice. He saw that 
 she kept her eyes upon the speaker's face with a 
 slight knitting of the brows, while the flush in 
 her cheeks subsided, revived again, and faded 
 into a marked paleness. " She is tender in that 
 quarter, too. What the devil ails the women, 
 to take after a cold-blooded sneak who can't tell 
 which girl he wants till he has lost them both ! " 
 The Colonel's large, light felt hat reposed on the 
 
THE TRIAL. 293 
 
 angle of his crossed knees. A crimson rosebud 
 rested against the silk lining of his coat-lapel. 
 His jaws projected squarely on either side of his 
 Napoleon III. mustache and imperial, grizzled 
 like the short, stiff hair on his massive head. He 
 nursed an unlit cigar between his lips, and occa 
 sionally changed it from one corner of his mouth 
 to the other, or tipped it sarcastically upwards 
 towards the blunt beak of his nose. He listened 
 with perfect equanimity to Mr. Craig's theory 
 of his character and exposition of his methods ; 
 this was, in fact, one of Harkins's great days. 
 
 Sammis, looking brilliantly sunburned, in a 
 new suit of clothes, was the first witness for the 
 defence. He testified to the burning of the Gem 
 Saloon, where the records of the camp had been 
 kept in the days of its infancy. To the fact that 
 Harkins had the records in his undisturbed pos 
 session for a day and a night, and part of the fol 
 lowing day. That the proprietor of the Gem 
 Saloon was known to have no insurance on his 
 property and no ready money. That, in spite of 
 having lost everything, he was notoriously better 
 off after the fire than before it. Sammis bore his 
 cross-examination well; but a friend of his who 
 remembered some suspicious circumstances con- 
 
294 JOHN BODEWIN 's TESTIMONY. 
 
 nected with the fire, found, under the opposite 
 lawyer's questioning, that he had remembered too 
 much. Another gentleman, who testified as to 
 the position of the boundary monuments and de 
 clared that they had been changed within the 
 time of his residence in the camp, was brought to 
 the verge of tears by the unsympathetic manner 
 of the plaintiff's counsel and the confusion in his 
 own dates. But this gentleman had escaped Mr. 
 Craig's supervision during the morning hours and 
 had stimulated his memory with unwise potations. 
 
 Bodewin took his place on the witness-stand in 
 a general silence of expectation. The real con 
 test was now understood to have begun. 
 
 He testified that he had surveyed the Uinta 
 
 I land Eagle Bird claims in the spring of 187T. 
 
 I j 
 
 : That he had believed Harkins to be the owner of 
 both claims at that time, although the record of 
 survey for the Eagle Bird was made out in the 
 name of James Keesner. 
 
 The records of both surveys, preserved in Bode- 
 win's note-book, were produced and sworn to by 
 him and examined by the jury. 
 
 Bodewin was shown a copy of the present rec 
 ord, and swore that it was not a true representa 
 tion of the two claims. He explained the points 
 
THE TRIAL. 295 
 
 of difference, and the new record was also 
 given to the jury to compare with the original 
 one. 
 
 One of the jurymen asked how a change could 
 be made in a record on paper without its being 
 evident on examination. Bodewin replied that a 
 new record could be substituted, giving an en 
 tirely different description of the same property, 
 the records of the camp at that time not having 
 been bound together, but kept loosely, each one 
 folded separately, in a candle-box, as a former 
 witness had testified. 
 
 Here Mr. Craig made a pause, during which the 
 witness appeared to be slightly restless. 
 
 "Mr. Bodewin," the counsel for the defence 
 began again, " you started to cross the range on 
 horseback on the morning of the 5th of Septem 
 ber?" 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, as if considering 
 the date, Bodewin answered : " Yes." 
 
 " Was it your intention in starting on that ride 
 to appear as a witness on this case, then called for 
 the 6th?" 
 
 " It was." 
 
 44 Why did you not fulfil that intention ? " 
 
 " I was prevented from doing so." 
 
296 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "State the nature of the impediment, if you 
 please." 
 
 " It was of the nature of two men, armed with 
 pistols and rifles." 
 
 " With these weapons pointed at you ? " 
 
 " The pistols, yes." 
 
 "And by these means they induced you to 
 change the course of your journey ? " 
 
 "They did." 
 
 " The inducement was sufficient, I presume ? " 
 
 Mr. Craig had asked his questions in quick 
 succession, in his nervous manner; Bodewin 
 replying in a much lower voice, with a curi 
 ous, defensive expression in his heavy-lidded 
 eyes, raised not quite to the level of Mr. 
 Craig's. 
 
 " Were these men known to you ? " 
 
 " They were not." 
 
 "Had you ever seen them before?" 
 
 "I had seen one of them once before, without 
 knowing his name." 
 
 " State where on the road between here and the 
 camp you met with this impediment." 
 
 " It was not on the direct road between here 
 and the camp." 
 
 "Where was it?" 
 
THE TRIAL. 297 
 
 " It was on the trail which joins that road on 
 the other side of the pass." 
 
 " You were then on your way to the pass ? " 
 
 " No." Bodewin could not resist a pause dur- 
 ing which he enjoyed Mr. Craig's ill-concealed dis 
 comfiture, arid then added calmly : " I had nearly 
 reached the foot of the pass when I was overtaken 
 by one of these men, who induced me to return 
 with him to a spot in the timber where, he said, a 
 man lay wounded by the falling of his horse, who 
 had an important message for me which he would 
 only deliver in person. I went back with the sup 
 posed messenger's messenger, by the way of this 
 trail, found a man lying on the ground, appar 
 ently helpless and in pain ; I dismounted to receive 
 his message and was then easily made prisoner." 
 
 Bodewin was answering with reckless prompt 
 ness, so far as the condition of his promise would 
 permit. If Mr. Craig, in the insanity of his zeal, 
 insisted upon putting questions his witness could 
 not or would not answer, he must take the conse 
 quences. 
 
 "What was the nature of that message they 
 trapped you with, Mr. Bodewin ? " 
 
 "It was of a personal nature." 
 
 Mr, Craig did not press the question, though 
 
298 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 inwardly raging at Bodewin's impertinence, and 
 longing for an opportunity to punish it. 
 
 "Were you forcibly prevented from returning 
 to your home and occupation during all the time 
 you were absent ? " 
 
 " That may be a matter of opinion." 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 " I was constantly kept in sight by one or both 
 of my keepers, they carrying weapons, while I 
 was unarmed. They informed me that if I kept 
 quiet I would not get hurt, the inference being 
 that if I did not keep quiet, I would." 
 
 " Under these circumstances you naturally kept 
 pretty quiet." 
 
 Bode win did not smile at or reply to this 
 pleasantry. 
 
 "Was Colonel Harkins's name mentioned at 
 any time between you and your captors during 
 the time of your confinement ? " 
 
 " It was." 
 
 " Give the conversation or conversations as 
 nearly as you can recall them relating to Colonel 
 Harkins." 
 
 " I remember but one conversation in which his 
 name was mentioned. I cannot repeat it word 
 for word." 
 
THE TRIAL. 299 
 
 " What impression did it leave on your mind as 
 to Harkins's connection with your capture and 
 imprisonment ? " 
 
 " I have not said that I was imprisoned " 
 
 " Your restraint, then." 
 
 " It left the impression that Colonel Harkins 
 was solely responsible for both." 
 
 " Where did they run you off to ? " one of the 
 jurymen asked. 
 
 Mr. Craig interposed, saying that his witness 
 did not wish to criminate those persons who had 
 carried into execution the plan of his abduction, 
 regarding them, with characteristic magnanimity, 
 as tools merely, in the hands of a power much 
 more dangerous than themselves. 
 
 "There is a humane breadth of view," Mr. 
 Craig continued, permitting himself an attempt 
 at sarcasm, which he fancied would escape every 
 body but the object of it, " a humane breadth of 
 view which but few of us can boast of, which 
 enables us to sympathize even with those who 
 have tried to injure us, when we understand and 
 pity their circumstances. We look upon them 
 as injured themselves, in proportion as they are 
 injuring us, by their enslavement to an evil in 
 fluence " 
 
300 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 " Oh, that's all nonsense ! " said the lively 
 juryman. " Tell us where they hid you ! " 
 
 The court protected Bodewin in refusing to 
 answer the question, perhaps because it interfered 
 with the court's dignity for jurors to assist at the 
 examination of witnesses ; but an unfavorable 
 opinion was inevitably formed of the witness, as a 
 person of high moral pretentious and unaccount 
 able reserves, whose own actions would require 
 close watching. 
 
 This opinion prevailed thenceforward among the 
 men who were present, but the women generally 
 respected Bodewin for keeping his own secrets 
 and protecting his enemies. They were predis 
 posed towards him for other reasons, that would 
 not sound so well in statement. They liked his 
 youthful slenderness of person, the easy way in 
 which he wore his well-cut clothes. They observ 
 ed, those who were nearest to him, that his hands, 
 although nearly as brown as an Indian's, were 
 long, smooth, and refined-looking. They liked his 
 Eastern accent, his quiet answers, and the slum 
 bering intensity of expression, impossible to de 
 fine, in his heavy-lidded, grayish eyes. They hoped 
 he would come off well on the cross-examination. 
 
 The court now took a recess. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE REBUTTAL. 
 
 THE afternoon sitting opened cheerfully with 
 Bodewin's cross-examination. The men with few 
 exceptions had lunched, and with vests opened 
 on account of the increasing heat, were prepared 
 to enjoy the baiting of this probably conceited 
 young man, who took such airs of gloomy reti 
 cence and whose information seemed to be so 
 largely in excess of his desire to impart it. 
 
 The lawyer for the plaintiff, listening with 
 apparent negligence to Bodewin's account of his 
 capture, saw that it was a tale calling for but 
 little talent in the cross-examination to make 
 ridiculous to a Western jury. It had excited 
 marked surprise in the court-room among those 
 present who knew Bodewin by reputation as a 
 cool fellow and a man of long experience in the 
 West, well acquainted with the risk of solitary 
 journeys in that part of the country, at a time 
 301 
 
302 
 
 when scarcely a week passed without a stage 
 being stopped and a file of passengers called on 
 to "hold up their hands." The weakness of 
 Bodewin's story was brought out and embellished 
 with local allusions and such wit as the speaker 
 had at his command. He enlarged upon Bodewin's 
 magnanimity, as Mr. Craig had called it, towards 
 his captors. Such magnanimity was certainly 
 unusual, and to a stranger, unacquainted with 
 the character of the witness, seemed to demand 
 some further explanation, besides that transcen 
 dent Christian forbearance which the learned 
 counsel on the other side had attributed to his 
 witness. 
 
 Was the witness quite sure that he had not 
 some other and more natural, not to say human 
 reason for condoning such a serious and exasper 
 ating offence as the restraint of his person and 
 actions, at a time when both were imperatively 
 required elsewhere? Had captivity by chance 
 been sweetened to him? We are commanded 
 to love our enemies, but no law, civil or religious, 
 that the counsel could remember, required a man 
 to keep his enemies' secrets ; especially when 
 they were secrets of a nature likely to be damag 
 ing to his own character. There were usually two 
 
THE REBUTTAL. 303 
 
 sides to bargains of that kind. " Now, as to that 
 message," the plaintiff's counsel asked suddenly, 
 in the hardest of his nasal tones, "might one 
 ask, since it was of so personal a nature, if it was 
 a message from a lady?" There was said to be a 
 lady in every case ; the lawyer hoped this case 
 was not to be an ungallant exception to the rule. 
 Bodewin was again supported by the court in his 
 refusal to answer, but the lawyer's wit was of the 
 kind which makes the average juryman grateful 
 to its author. The weightier but less amusing 
 portions of Bodewin's testimony were lost sight 
 of in the story of his capture, which could ill 
 bear the scrutiny Harkins's counsel had succeeded 
 in concentrating upon it, while calling upon the 
 jury to wonder at the witness's reasons for twice 
 refusing to answer the questions put to him. 
 The juror who had been snubbed by the court 
 was in no doubt whatever as to the duplicity of 
 Bodewin's character, and the general feeling was 
 against him, when Mr. Craig said, at the close of 
 his examination : 
 
 "Your Honor, this rests the case for the 
 defence." 
 
 A mingled stir of relief and expectation had 
 begun to pervade the court-room, when the plain- 
 
304 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 tiff's counsel rose and said that he would like to 
 introduce a few witnesses in rebuttal. People 
 who were leaving the room returned to their 
 seats again, and no one was surprised when the 
 name of James Keesner was called. They would 
 now have the story of the surveys and sale of 
 the Eagle Bird over again from Harkins's side. 
 
 James Keesner testified that on the 5th of 
 September, somewhere about noon, John Bodewin 
 came to his cabin in the north woods near the 
 lake, and asked him to let him stay there quietly 
 until the Eagle Bird trial was over. That he had 
 known Bodewin, off and on, for some years, 
 through Colonel Harkins ; that Colonel Harkiris 
 had said, Bodewin would never testify against 
 him on account of something that passed between 
 them at Deadwood three years ago, something 
 about a woman, that Bodewin didn't want talked 
 about. That Bodewin didn't explain to them 
 why he did not wish to go on the trial, but just 
 said he didn't want to and wouldn't, and wanted 
 to stay there till the trial was over. That Bode 
 win had been to the cabin before, not often, but 
 once or twice that summer as he was passing 
 through the woods. The cabin had been built 
 three years before, when they were working the 
 
THE REBUTTAL. 305 
 
 claim near it ; they had quit work on the claim 
 for a year, and had only been back there since 
 spring. That they lived very quiet in the woods, 
 Bodewin keeping close to the cabin on account 
 of not wanting to be seen by any one passing. 
 That he and the witness's daughter Louisa, called 
 Babe, were always together, he helping her about 
 her work or just sitting around looking at her. 
 That Babe was seventeen and worth looking at. 
 She wasn't used to men like Bodewin, that called 
 themselves gentlemen. That a year or so before, 
 Bodewin had sent her his picture in joke like, by 
 Harkins, hearing Harkins say what a beauty she 
 was growing. That he set himself to make her 
 like him. That it was easy done. That he, the 
 witness, had been troubled about the way things 
 looked, but thought it best not to say any 
 thing, Bodewin being there for so short a time 
 and Babe as innocent as the day she was born. 
 That he was watching out for them, the evening 
 before they went off. Bodewin was sitting on 
 the bench in front of the cabin, talking low with 
 Babe, their heads close together, that he himself 
 kept walking up and down, up and down, pulling 
 on his old pipe, and watching out behind the 
 trees ; that when he could not see them any 
 
306 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 longer for night coming on, he came up short to 
 them and ordered them into the house. Bodewin 
 had looked mad and gone straight to bed. Babe 
 was for going off too, but he had kept her by and 
 given her a talking to. 
 
 Perhaps he had been hard on her, but what 
 was a man to do with such foolishness going on, 
 and Babe his only girl and her mother dead. 
 He described the situation of the rooms in the 
 cabin and went on with his story. How in the 
 morning, early, Tony had gone out for water and 
 found the black horse was missing and they two 
 the only ones left in the cabin. Bodewin was 
 gone, and Babe was gone. Her bed had not 
 been slept in. The boards of the floor had been 
 taken up to make room for Bodewin to crawl up 
 from below. If his girl had gone wrong, it was 
 the fault of Bode win's ways, different to what she 
 was used to, and his being continually round 
 trying to make her like him, and she having no 
 mother or woman to talk to her. Any one who 
 ever saw his girl could see she was a good girl. 
 She hadn't had any chance, anyhow, to be any 
 thing else. 
 
 Here Keesner paused and wiped his face and 
 beard. His lean hands were trembling, and his 
 
THE KEBTJTTAL. 307 
 
 voice was hoarse with the excitement of speech 
 in the presence of so large and attentive an 
 audience. Under his unfeigned trouble, there 
 was the satisfaction of being himself a figure of 
 unwonted importance on an occasion likely to be 
 memorable in that region. 
 
 " Did I ever see my girl again ? " he repeated. 
 " Never, either living or dead, but plenty saw 
 her. There isn't a man from the camp in this 
 room, I may say, but has seen her, and can speak 
 to what I say, that she was well-grown and hand 
 some, with as good a look to her as any girl need 
 to have. Nobody that ever saw her could take 
 her for any poor truck. She was born a long 
 ways from any of your camps or cities, either. 
 She knew the look of the trees better than she 
 did men's looks. She was easy lied to." 
 
 Being recalled to his narrative, Keesner went 
 on to say that Tony, his son, wouldn't eat nor 
 sleep, but was hunting Bodewin, while he himself 
 stayed by, in case Babe should come home. That 
 in the afternoon the black horse came straying 
 back through the woods, the saddle on but the 
 stirrups crossed over the saddle and the bridle 
 hanging from the pommel. That the next after 
 noon, being the day but one after Babe left, 
 
308 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 Harkins rode out to the cabin and told him his 
 girl was dead dead, but first deserted by the. 
 man that led her away. 
 
 "This day week," said Keesner, "my girl was 
 buried by strangers. She was stoned to death by 
 the emptying of a car while she was crossing the 
 waste-dump up at the Eagle Bird, where she'd 
 come a-huntin' for John Bodewin. Gentlemen," 
 said the witness, turning his red, convulsed coun 
 tenance upon the jury, "that man Bodewin 
 walked behind my girl's dead body when they 
 carried her up the hill to the mine ; he heard all 
 the fuss and the racket, and he never said a word. 
 He saw her layin' there for the whole town to 
 stare at with the very shoes on her feet she'd 
 followed him in away from her home, and he 
 never said a word; never owned to it he'd ever 
 set eyes on her before never once said she was 
 a good girl, with folks of her own belonging to 
 her. He let them say what they would of her. 
 She was nothin' to him no more." 
 
 "Why didn't Colonel Harkins say he knew 
 her?" Keesner repeated in answer to the coun 
 sel's question. " Because when he see my daugh 
 ter layin' there, and nobody to claim her, he knew 
 it meant trouble, the kind of trouble that's better 
 
THE KEBUTTAL. 309 
 
 not talked of. He knowed Babe never got in that 
 shape without help. 'Who's the man? 'he says 
 to me. ' John Bodewin's the man,' I says. ' You 
 want to git even with him ? ' he says. 4 That's 
 what I'm layin' for,' says I. ' Hold on, then. 
 Wait,' says he, 'your time'll come. Words bite 
 sharper than bullets when a man's thin-skinned.' 
 And I've hel' on and I've waited, and now I've 
 said my say, and you can ask Anthony, my son 
 there, if every word ain't God's truth." 
 
 Mr. Craig sat stupefied, making no effort to 
 impede the witness or arrest his words by timely 
 objections. The case had gone out of his hands 
 and beyond him. It was no longer a question offr 
 Mr. Newbold's property, but of John Bodewin's 
 honor. The lady who sat next to Josephine was 
 weeping hysterically. Men were muttering to 
 gether. Mr. Craig, fearing that Keesner's story 
 might only gain strength on investigation, and 
 seeing that the witness had the whole court with 
 him, waived his right of cross-questioning, and 
 the next witness was called. 
 
 In the conference before the trial, between 
 Harkins and the Keesners, in the cabin in the 
 wood, Tony had stipulated that "Dad" should 
 "do the lyin'." He "was used to it" as for 
 
310 JOHN BODE WIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 himself, the less talking they made him do the 
 better. Harkins had accepted Tony's estimate of 
 his own powers, and he was not called upon to 
 corroborate the more fanciful portions of his 
 father's narrative. But the parts which Harkins 
 had supplied, assuring his confederates that they 
 were necessary to complete Bodewin's disgrace, 
 were not the strongest parts of James Keesner's 
 story. There remained enough which Tony could 
 savagely confirm without fear of entanglement. 
 
 There was only one more witness for the rebut 
 tal. The friendship between Bodewin and Hill- 
 bury was not generally known to the excited 
 group of people who awaited the next develop 
 ment in this singular trial ; but to one or two of 
 those whose suspense was keenest, the painfulness 
 of the scene reached its climax when the name of 
 Edward Wales Hillbury was called by the counsel 
 for the plaintiff. 
 
 Mr. Craig was sharply roused by it. His old 
 dislike for Bodewin, lately intensified by their 
 mutual relations, had never been inconsistent with 
 respect. He looked at Bodewin keenly, and said 
 to himself, "Here has been some cruel lying. 
 Hillbury will be sorry for what he is going to do, 
 if he could have helped doing it. I'll make him 
 
THE KEBUTTAL. 311 
 
 sorry for it ! " the perverse little lawyer vowed to 
 himself. Now that there seemed to be abundant 
 cause for distrusting Bodewin, he suddenly felt 
 himself bound to do battle for him. Besides, 
 Bodewin was his witness. 
 
 Hillbury's direct examination brought out the 
 fact of his accidental visit to the cabin in the 
 woods and his interview with Babe, including the 
 incident of Bodewin's photograph. Babe had 
 informed her father of this visit in detail, know 
 ing him to be engaged in a plot of some kind 
 against the original of the picture, and hoping 
 that it might frighten, or possibly deter him 
 through fear of discovery. Keesner had treasured 
 up his daughter's communication as likely to be 
 interesting to Harkins. Harkins had found it 
 extremely interesting, and the result of Babe's 
 warning had been Hillbury's summons to testify 
 against his friend. 
 
 The counsel then asked Hillbury if Mr. Bode 
 win had ever said anything to him which would 
 lead him to suppose that Colonel Harkins had any 
 hold upon him. Hillbury replied with evident 
 reluctance that Mr. Bodewin had once said that 
 he was under an obligation to Colonel Harkins. 
 Repeated questions forced from him the admis- 
 
312 
 
 sion that Mr. Bodewin had spoken of the obliga 
 tion as a delicate and strenuous one, but added 
 that Mr. Bodewin often used extravagant expres 
 sions in speaking of quite simple matters, and 
 declared that he had attached no particular im 
 portance to the words. 
 
 " At the time," the counsel suggested. 
 
 " At the time," Hillbury allowed the suggestion. 
 
 "At any subsequent time did you regard them 
 more seriously ? " 
 
 " When Mr. Bodewin was suddenly missing, I 
 naturally recalled everything, even the slightest 
 noteworthy thing, connected with him that had 
 happened near the time of his disappearance, this 
 conversation among others." 
 
 Hillbury then identified the unknown girl who 
 was killed at the Eagle Bird mine as the one he 
 had seen and talked with in the cabin. When 
 asked if Mr. Bodewin had ever spoken to him of 
 this girl or of the cabin, the witness replied that 
 he had not. 
 
 "You were then greatly surprised to find his 
 photograph there, were you not?" the counsel 
 asked. 
 
 "I was." 
 
 " Did you ever question him about it ? " 
 
THE BEBUTTAL. 313 
 
 44 1 did not." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " For one reason, there was no opportunity to 
 do so, between the time of my visit to the cabin 
 and Mr. Bodewiii's disappearance." 
 
 "You have had opportunities since his return 
 to speak to him about it, have you not?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Still you made no allusion to this incident 
 which was such a matter of surprise to you ? " 
 
 44 No, not directly ? " 
 
 44 Have you ever in any way invited his confi 
 dence on this subject? " 
 
 44 In a general way I have invited his confidence 
 on this and other subjects." 
 
 44 Did he respond?" 
 
 44 He did not. But, it may be that my manner 
 was at fault. One is not always happy on such 
 occasions; and it has never been my habit to 
 press inquiries of a personal nature upon my 
 friends." 
 
 44 And you wish I would be equally conside 
 rate with you " the counsel concluded with 
 a flourish of courtesy. " That will do, Mr. Hill- 
 bury." 
 
 Mr. Craig began his cross-examination by 
 
314 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 asking Hillbury how long lie had known Mr. 
 Bode win. 
 
 " Fifteen years," was the reply. 
 
 "Had their relations during that time been 
 friendly?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Invariably?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 What were their relations at the present time ? 
 Hillbury's momentary hesitation was covered by 
 an objection promptly raised by the opposite coun 
 sel. The question was allowed, and Hillbury re 
 plied that he was not in a position to say how Mr. 
 Bodewin might regard him at that moment, but 
 the answer had the effect of an evasion, and Mr. 
 Craig felt that he had gained his first point. How 
 was it, he next asked, that a friend of Mr. Bode- 
 win's, one who had been his friend for fifteen 
 years, had made no search for him, when he was 
 missing under circumstances calculated to excite 
 the gravest apprehensions for his safety ? 
 
 Mr. Hillbury replied that the organized search 
 set on foot by the town stood a better chance of 
 success, in cases of that kind, than would a single 
 individual, even with the stimulus of his friend 
 ship for the object of the search. 
 
THE REBUTTAL. 315 
 
 "The organized search," Mr. Craig retorted, 
 " consisted of three or four men who rode about 
 the country, and drank a little more whiskey than 
 usual for a few days; the search then resolved 
 itself into gossip about Bodewin's character and 
 intentions, and bets as to his probable fate. Was 
 that enough to satisfy a friendship of fifteen 
 
 o ?} 
 
 years : 
 
 " I did not say that it was," Mr. Hillbury replied. 
 
 "Well, was it?" 
 
 "In my own case, it was not." 
 
 " What further effort, if any, did you make to 
 find your friend ? " 
 
 " I went in search of him myself." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! And how much time, pray, did 
 you give to this individual search?" asked Mr. 
 Craig, who knew that Hillbury had been seen in 
 camp or its neighborhood nearly every day during 
 Bodewin's absence. 
 
 " A little more than half a day." 
 
 "I suppose you found him," Mr. Craig said, 
 with an ironical glance at the jury. 
 
 Mr. Hillbury made no response to this supposi 
 tion. 
 
 "Were you satisfied with the result of your 
 half-a-day's search?" 
 
316 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 "In one sense, yes." 
 
 " In what sense was that ? " 
 
 " In the sense that I found him." 
 
 A sensation in the court, in the midst of which 
 Mr. Craig's irony was extinguished. 
 
 "Where did you find him?" he asked mechani 
 cally, while desperately trying to arrange his 
 future questions, in case Hillbury's answer should 
 turn out to be as bad as he feared. 
 
 " In the cabin in the North woods." 
 
 " Which cabin ? " 
 
 " The one I have already described where I saw 
 the photograph of Mr. Bodewin." 
 
 "What was Mr. Bodewin doing when you 
 found him, as you say?" Mr. Craig 'was now 
 trusting to the chance of getting the witness 
 involved by rapidly multiplying unimportant 
 questions. Hillbury's pale countenance facing 
 him began to show signs of distress. Mr. Craig 
 pressed the question. 
 
 " What was he doing ? " 
 
 " I don't know what he was doing," said Hill- 
 bury, with a kind of violence. 
 
 44 How near were you to him ? " 
 
 " Twice as far from him, perhaps, as I am from 
 you." 
 
THE REBUTTAL. 317 
 
 " Yet you don't know what he was doing ! 
 Did you ask him?" 
 
 " I did not speak to him." 
 
 " You did not speak to him ! What did you 
 do, pray ? " 
 
 "I looked at him, and then went back to my 
 horse, mounted and rode away." 
 
 " A singular and touching interview, truly, 
 between friends of fifteen years, one of whom 
 had been missing for some time under an im 
 plication of danger. Was Mr. Bodewin alone 
 when you saw him and were too much over 
 come, as I conclude, by your feelings, to speak to 
 him?" 
 
 "He was not." 
 
 " Who was with him ? " 
 
 " A young woman." 
 
 " Any one else ? " 
 
 " To all appearances they were alone." 
 
 "Were they talking together?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, * to all appearances ' what were they 
 doing ? " Mr. Craig went on stupidly ; but a 
 strange look in Hillbury's face, almost like a 
 warning unspoken, arrested him. " Did Mr. 
 Bodewin see you, or know of your neighbor- 
 
318 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 hood ? " lie hurried on, trying to bury the pre 
 vious question in a new one. 
 
 "I do not think he did," said Hillbury, 
 dropping his eyes. He knew that Craig had 
 understood him at last, and that the ordeal was 
 over. 
 
 But Craig could not accept his defeat without 
 one more effort. 
 
 " You were there, then, not to find your friend 
 but to spy upon his actions ? " 
 
 " I was there to find him, to help him if he 
 needed such help as I alone could give him, to 
 procure additional help if required. Finding 
 him safe and apparently happy, I did not 
 offer my services. The offer of my society it 
 seemed better, under the circumstances, to post 
 pone." 
 
 "Have you ever described this incident 
 before?" 
 
 " I have never spoken of it until to-day." 
 
 " You seem to have saved it carefully for the 
 time when it would be most likely to injure your 
 friend of fifteen years." 
 
 " That is your inference, for which I am not 
 responsible." 
 
 Hillbury was released, inwardly cursing Craig 
 
THE REBUTTAL. 319 
 
 for a " rash, intruding fool," and writhing under 
 his own revolting part in the day's work. And 
 Craig could think of nothing that would have 
 made things worse, except to have had his wife 
 present to witness his blunders. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE NIGHT AFTER THE TRIAL. 
 
 IT was the talk of the town that evening that 
 Harkins had won his suit, Bodewin, the chief wit 
 ness for the defence, having forsworn himself, and 
 his testimony having been practically set aside by 
 the jury. That there had been shameful disclo 
 sures as to his character. That Tony Keesner, 
 brother of the girl he had wronged, was hunting 
 for Bodewin, swearing he would shoot him at 
 sight. Bets were being offered in every drinking- 
 saloon of the city as to the result of the meeting. 
 The town seemed to have emptied itself into the 
 streets, at this hour of coolness and gayety. 
 Children's voices were shrill in the gardened 
 suburbs ; the light rush of wheels was loud and 
 low, in quick alternation, on the broad avenues 
 looking outward from the city. A wind from the 
 mountains, setting across the sun-warmed plain, 
 revived with its wild, sweet breath the day's lan 
 guors. 
 
 320 
 
THE NIGHT AFTEK THE TRIAL. 321 
 
 How many heart-breaks go to make up that 
 song of a city at night ! On her bed, that loomed 
 white in the darkened room, Josephine lay and 
 listened to this voice of many voices, dream-like, 
 far away from that burning core of anguish which 
 was the centre of her being. Shame could not \ 
 approach Bodewin as he lived in her thoughts. 
 Pie had loved the girl who was dead, there had 
 been a necessity for secrecy, everything had been 
 misjudged and misrepresented, and Bodewin had 
 been too proud or too wretched to explain. That 
 he had been base it was out of the power of the 
 woman who loved him to believe. That he loved 
 the girl whose beauty still ached in Josephine's 
 remembrance, she could well believe. That her 
 death had complicated his position in some cruel 
 way, she could understand or rather she tried, 
 to understand nothing ; she believed and suffered. ; 
 But the dumb cry of her anguish was not for her 
 self it was for Bodewin. Where was he that 
 night? What had been left to him ? Everything 
 was gone, and there lived not a soul who could 
 comfort him. She had dreamed that they two 
 were strangely, perhaps perilously, sympathetic, 
 but while she had been balancing her maidenly 
 subtleties of conduct, the current of his life had 
 
322 
 
 sunk out of sight, like those rivers that run along 
 in sunshine and then suddenly disappear in the 
 quicksands. 
 
 About nine o'clock that evening, in one of the 
 thoroughfares of the town, two pistol-shots were 
 heard, fired in quick succession. Word was 
 borne from street to street, with a clamor of 
 voices and a hurry of feet, that Harking in the 
 hour of his triumph was dead. It reached the 
 great, gaslit house, with its tiers of balconied 
 windows, open to the night, where Josephine 
 lay; it floated up from smoking-room to parlor, 
 and pervaded the corridors in bursts of excited 
 talk. It reached Josephine's door in a sound of 
 imperative knocking. She started up. Her 
 father spoke to her from the passage. She 
 rose and opened the door. The room was faintly 
 lighted from the street. 
 
 " Sitting in the dark, Jose ? " her father said, 
 reaching for her hand. " I hoped you were in bed 
 and asleep, but I came up, thinking you might 
 have been wakened by the stir in the house. A 
 dreadful thing has happened. The town is ring 
 ing with it ! Did you hear the shots ? " 
 
 Josephine did not answer. 
 
 Her father had drawn her down upon his lap, 
 
THE NIGHT 4FTER THE TRIAL. 323 
 
 in the great chair he had sunk into. He sighed, 
 and rubbed his handkerchief over his damp fore 
 head. 
 
 " That last shot sent Harkins to his account ! " 
 
 " Who " Josephine began, and the great 
 dread in her eyes finished the question. 
 
 "He and that young Keesner were in some 
 place drinking together, or Keesner was drinking 
 and Harkins was keeping watch of him. Keesner 
 saw Bodewin pass on the street. He rushed out 
 and fired one shot at him, and missed. Harkins 
 followed him and grabbed him from behind, be 
 fore he could shoot again. Keesner whirled, and 
 in the struggle Harkins got the second barrel. 
 They fell together, Harkins underneath. He 
 never spoke. Keesner's friends got him away 
 before the police came up. But Harkins got 
 what was meant for Bodewin. Why, Jose 
 phine ! " 
 
 Josephine was sobbing on her father's neck. 
 " Thank God ! " she whispered, not knowing that 
 she had spoken. 
 
 Bodewin had brought his horse down from the 
 mountains, intending to leave him on a ranch for 
 the winter. He had himself expected to go East 
 after the trial ; but now he had no plans, only to 
 
324 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 get out of the town as quickly as possible, and 
 alone. Across the plains many roads and trails 
 led towards the distant mountain passes, to the 
 South and West. 
 
 Baldy had found a trail and was following it, 
 with his head low, his ears playing backwards 
 and forwards, knowing that his master had given 
 him the direction of their course, and intelligently 
 responsive to the trust. 
 
 Where he was going, what he was going to do, 
 Bodewin did not yet know. It was enough for 
 the present that he was in motion. But the 
 motion was not so rapid or so exciting as to 
 take the place of thought. The darkness was 
 peopled with faces, poignant with wounded sur 
 prise or reproach or contempt, their looks all 
 concentrated upon himself as in a nightmare. 
 Babe Keesner's face he saw more constantly and 
 vividly than any other. Although he could not 
 definitely accuse himself, his conscience was not 
 clear when he thought of her. Of all who had 
 suffered through him, she had suffered most, and 
 she had lost everything. Now that it was too 
 late he could see the madness of his course with 
 regard to her the blind pertinacity with which 
 he had kept that wild and foolish promise her 
 
THE XIGHT AFTER THE TRIAL. 325 
 
 death had extorted from him. From the night j l 
 when he followed the wagon that bore her body: 
 to the camp, he had felt that he was marked for 
 trouble; but he had not foreseen that it could 
 involve any one but himself. He might have 
 asked for another hearing at the trial, for Babe's 
 sake if not for his own, but he could not have 
 gone on the witness stand again without being 
 summoned and questioned by Craig Craig who 
 could not know what questions to ask, and 
 whose capacity for blundering might be measured 
 by his cross-examination of Hillbury. He would 
 not have been allowed to tell an uninterrupted 
 story without a running fire of objections from the 
 opposite counsel. He had no proofs to offer that 
 easy and cynical crowd to which his appeal must 
 have been made, except his own word, and that 
 had been broken down before them. These were 
 some of the excuses which Bode win made for a 
 silence which covered so much wrong and pain ; 
 but the true explanation of it lay deeper than all 
 his reasons, in the nature of the man himself. 
 No one who knew him well would have been 
 surprised that he was silent after hearing his 
 reputation sworn away before an assemblage of 
 men ready, to a man, to believe him guilty, even 
 
326 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 had he felt that there was a single person present 
 to whom his disgrace mattered more than to Hill- 
 bury Hillbury, whose testimony had completed 
 the case against him. 
 
 Bodewin's anguish, when he thought of Jose 
 phine, left no room for conjecture as to what 
 she might have felt in witnessing his shame. 
 The trial scene had branded him for life. The 
 infamy of it was known to but a few people, but 
 it would spread. Already he could hear the 
 story of it repeated in every city where he had 
 ever been known. There was nothing to be done 
 but to live it down in the years that were left to 
 him of his life. He felt already old, and yet as if 
 he should never die. In the meantime he would 
 do Babe the justice and give himself the consola 
 tion of telling the true story to Josephine. That 
 she would believe him, without proofs, he did not 
 doubt. Such generous belief was one of the 
 necessities of her nature. He would get away 
 into some corner of the world where he was not 
 known, and think it all over and write her a 
 letter. Already there was a strange, poor com 
 fort in the thought. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 JOSEPHINE AND HILLBURY. 
 
 JOSEPHINE had been home nearly a month 
 when Bodewin's letter came. It was a thick 
 letter with the postmark only of some railroad 
 on the envelope. She opened it, with the joyless 
 certainty that she was to read the story of Babe 
 Keesner written by her unhappy lover. There 
 were a number of sheets closely written without 
 date or signature, and within them was a note 
 addressed to herself. She read : 
 
 " MY DEAK Miss NEWBOLD : When I asked you on the night 
 of Babe Keesner' s death if you could still have faith in me, 
 even if circumstances condemned me, I spoke in weakness, 
 foreseeing what some of the consequences of that night were 
 likely to be, and feeling that the one thing I could not bear 
 was that you should doubt me. It is a consolation to me, even 
 now, to remember how readily and cordially you replied to my 
 presumptuous claim upon your faith. You were in distress 
 yourself that night. I frightened and bewildered you, yet I 
 remember you did not shrink from me or evade my selfish 
 question. You must have thought of it in the court-room, and 
 it must have seemed to you a shameless and paltry advantage 
 327 
 
328 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 for me to have taken of your generosity. I dare not picture to 
 myself all that you must have thought of me that day. 
 
 "And yet I know God knows how I know it that you 
 will not doubt the truth of what I ask you here to read, the 
 inclosed story of my unhappy acquaintance with the Keesner 
 family, from the hour of my capture by the father and son, to 
 my last words with the daughter before her death. No one 
 who believed Keesner' s story would have believed mine, had I 
 insisted upon telling it in the court-room to save Babe's good 
 name and my own ; there were other reasons why I could not 
 tell it there and then. 
 
 " I put it in your hands now, to repeat to whom it may con 
 cern, or, if you think better, to keep as a trust from one 
 woman to another, conveyed to you by me. For it is not so 
 much my story as the story of Babe Keesner. My own story I 
 have already told you all but the end of it. It ends in my 
 hopeless love for you. 
 
 "Yours, JOHN TRISTRAM BODEWIN." 
 
 The story Josephine put carefully away for 
 the time when it should be needed; but the 
 letter, that was from Bodewin to herself alone, 
 she kept always with her and read over and over 
 the words in which he had called himself her 
 lover. For a little while the joy of knowing as 
 well as trusting that he was guiltless, and the 
 more selfish joy of knowing herself beloved, 
 helped her to bear the thought of his self-exile ; 
 but soon she began to ask herself, each day with 
 a sharper anxiety, how long that exile was to last. 
 He had cut himself off from any hope of an 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBUBY. 329 
 
 answer to his letter. She knew not where he 
 had hidden himself. She searched the papers 
 for personal items from the remotest states and 
 territories, and often her heart stood still at the 
 glimpse of a name, and she feared to read the 
 record of some lonely death, in the tragedy of 
 which she had no part. She could not bring 
 herself to show Bodewin's letter to her father, 
 his justification in that quarter she felt must come 
 through some one else besides herself. Her life 
 was full of duties and little cares that once had 
 made her sufficiently happy, but now it seemed 
 to her like the swollen November currents of the 
 river that flowed past her window, heavily 
 circling and swooning back upon itself, yet borne 
 helplessly onward. 
 
 It was about this time that Hillbury, on his 
 way to New York, passed through Kansas City 
 and stopped over one train for the sake of seeing 
 Josephine. He sent her a note from his hotel on 
 the morning of his arrival, asking her permission 
 to call in the afternoon. 
 
 Josephine welcomed this opportunity as the 
 one she had long waited for. Hillbury, of all 
 others, was the one whom it most concerned to 
 hear Babe Keesner's story the one it most 
 
330 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 behooved to cancel, as far as might be, the wrong 
 that had been done. She would not trust herself 
 with Bodewin's defence. Hillbury should have 
 the story as it had been given to her, in the words 
 of Bodewin''s letter. 
 
 In the weeks since the trial,. Hillbury had been 
 settling with himself in regard to Josephine. He 
 had come to a decision none the less impassioned 
 that it was tardy and deliberate. He loved her ; 
 she was everything his wife should be, except 
 that in some ways she needed development. He 
 felt that he was singularly fitted for the happy 
 task of aiding that development. It was not in 
 Hillbury 's nature to be humble, even in his love. 
 Why should he be, indeed? He was thoroughly 
 equipped and disciplined for exact work and 
 refined enjoyment, for appreciation or for judg 
 ment ; why not for love ? Each separate problem 
 of his life as it presented itself had been solved 
 by him in the most satisfactory manner. The 
 problem next in order was this beautiful young 
 woman, whose divine capacity for love he believed 
 in and longed to prove. He had watched the 
 progress of Bodewin's influence over her, at first 
 with curiosity but later with deepening unrest. 
 That influence was at an end now it never 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBURY. 331 
 
 occurred to Hillbury that it could have survived 
 the revelations of the trial. The juxtaposition of 
 his own happiness, supposing happiness to be in 
 store for him, with his friend's downfall was 
 painful. But life was full of such pain, and 
 the Nemesis that had overtaken Bodewin could 
 not.be appeased by any private renunciations of 
 his own. 
 
 Did Hillbury but know it, his sorrow for his 
 friend, and the trouble of mind it had cost him, 
 together with his own share in Bodewin's con 
 demnation, had done much to soften his pride of 
 individuality, and to widen the gate of his well- 
 guarded heart for love to creep in. 
 
 He was surprised to find how nervous he was 
 becoming, while he waited for Josephine after 
 sending up his card. 
 
 He watched her with keen pleasure as she 
 came down the long room to meet him. Her 
 beauty impressed him not more than her earnest 
 ness and entire unconsciousness of herself. She 
 did not smile, but her face showed a gladness that 
 was almost exaltation. Hillbury was not humble, 
 but he was honest and clear-sighted. He could 
 not take that unexpected deep joy in her face all 
 to himself. He would have to come many times 
 
332 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 to see her before he would have earned such a 
 beautiful look of greeting as that. It troubled 
 him to think of the unknown agencies that might 
 be swaying her life away from him, even during 
 these moments she was apparently giving to him. 
 She held a bulky letter, which she kept in her 
 hands, bending and crushing it, while she replied 
 to his inquiries about her father and the incidents 
 of their journey. For some time they talked of 
 indifferent things, carefully, on Hillbury's part, 
 avoiding any allusion to their common experi 
 ences in the camp, or to any person connected 
 with them. It was Hillbury's intention to com 
 mence again on a new basis with Josephine, ignor 
 ing as far as possible the unfortunate beginning 
 of their acquaintance ignoring it until they had 
 become intimate enough to return to it from a 
 common point of view. Then they would talk of 
 it together, with assured sympathy, as of every 
 thing else in both of their lives that had been 
 remembered with pleasure or with pain. This 
 thought stealing into his mind was almost confus 
 ing in its sweetness. There was a little silence. 
 Then Josephine bent towards him suddenly, her 
 hands clasped over the letter in her lap. " We 
 are thinking of the same thing, I know. Why 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBURY. 333 
 
 should we not speak of it ? " she said, looking 
 almost imploringly at Hillbury. 
 
 "Of what are you thinking? "he asked. 
 
 " Of the day when I saw you last. It seems to 
 me I have thought of nothing else ever since." 
 She did not see that her words were a blow to 
 Hillbury. "I know," she went on, "how you 
 must have suffered in doing what they made you 
 do. It was worse for you almost than for your 
 friend. For you believed he had sinned, and he 
 knew that he had not." 
 
 She gave Hillbury a moment in which to speak, 
 but he was silent. 
 
 " How strange it is," she continued, with an 
 absent look of pain, " that the truth can be more 
 cruelly false even than falsehood itself. The 
 proofs were terrible, but it was the proofs that 
 lied." 
 
 "How do you know that?" Hillbury asked, 
 sternly. He felt as if he were now on his own 
 defence. 
 
 " I have the true story here, in his own words 
 all 'those fatal omissions he was obliged to 
 make ; they are all explained here." She half 
 opened the letter and held it towards Hillbury. 
 " You are to read it," she urged, as he made no 
 
334 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 movement to take it. "You are the one 01 all 
 others who must read it." 
 
 Hillbury had recognized the handwriting. " If 
 it is imperative that I should read it, why was it 
 not addressed to me ? " 
 
 " You forget there was a woman sacrificed with 
 him," said Josephine coldly. " He has written in 
 her defence, not in his own. But her cause and 
 his are inextricable. In telling the truth about 
 her, he shows how he himself has been mis 
 judged." 
 
 " If there is anything he could have explained 
 and did not, he has done a great wrong to others 
 besides himself. A man owes the truth about 
 himself to his friends at all times, and at certain 
 times he owes it to all men. The trial was one of 
 those occasions. Bodewin had no right to make 
 \ omissions in his testimony. It is not the truth 
 that is sometimes false, it is half the truth." 
 
 "But one may become involved through sym 
 pathy ; through tenderness for others. He was 
 bound by a promise to one who was dying, abso 
 lutely helpless and at his mercy." 
 
 It was unfortunate that these hastily chosen 
 words of Josephine's called up a picture that was 
 almost revolting to a man of Hillbury's stern pro- 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBUBY. 335 
 
 bity and hatred of morbid sentiment. " I cannot 
 imagine," he replied with deep-toned impatience, 
 " any circumstances that should excuse a man 
 for making an unconditional promise to conceal 
 the truth, or a part of it." 
 
 " It is very possible that you cannot," said 
 Josephine ; " but that was not the question at 
 the trial. The charges they made against him 
 there are answered in this letter. Your own 
 statements are answered. You owe it to your 
 self to read it." She offered him the letter again. 
 She was hurt and disappointed by Hillbury's 
 manner. She had expected that he would wel 
 come Bodewin's explanations with unhesitating 
 joy, but now it seemed as if he required some 
 indorsement of the message itself. He took the 
 letter and was about to put it away in his pocket- 
 book, when Josephine interposed " Oh, I can 
 not give it up to you ; I must ask you to read it 
 now. There are not many pages." 
 
 "I will return it to you, promptly," said Hill- 
 bury. "I would rather read it, if you please, 
 when I am alone ; you think me possibly more 
 indifferent in this matter than I am." 
 
 It was impossible for Josephine to explain to 
 Hillbury her feeling of passionate proprietorship 
 
336 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 in Bodewin's letter. It had come like a revela 
 tion, vouchsafed to her alone, out of the sad 
 mystery of his fate. It was, to her simple imagi 
 nation, the sole and sufficient proof of his inno 
 cence. She could not part with it, even for a 
 day. Her pride deserted her in this dilemma ; 
 she looked helplessly at Hillbury, with tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Read it to me yourself," said Hillbury sud 
 denly. " The words will come home to me more 
 if I hear them uttered." He was not slow to 
 comprehend her feeling. He suspected that he 
 had made a dreary mistake not the first one of 
 that strange, unhappy summer. He wanted some 
 sure proof of it. There could be none surer than 
 to hear Josephine tell Bodewin's story in his own 
 words. 
 
 She hesitated but a moment over the alterna 
 tive. Then going to the window and seating 
 herself between the heavy partings of the cur 
 tains, she began to read. At first her voice trem 
 bled and the pages of thin paper rustled slightly 
 in her fingers. But soon she had lost herself in 
 the story. Hillbury listened, but not with joy, 
 for Bodewin's justification was his own sentence, 
 and the final blow to the hope which had brought 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBTJRY. 337 
 
 him there. There was no mistaking the source 
 of this passion for justice that thrilled in the girl's 
 voice and made the blood in her cheek its wit 
 ness. He saw the sweet delusion he had been 
 cherishing fade, and in its place he faced only the 
 cold, enduring peace of reparation for a wrong 
 unconsciously committed but no less cruel in its 
 consequences. He saw where he had failed in his 
 faith towards his friend. Failures or mistakes of 
 any kind were bitter things for Hillbury to ac 
 knowledge, but while he silently owned his short 
 comings his habit of justice made him just, even 
 to himself. He did not accuse himself extrava 
 gantly. He had judged his friend only as he him 
 self would have submitted to be judged by others. 
 
 When in the course of the narrative Josephine 
 came to the incident of the photograph, Hillbury 
 interrupted her. He did not understand Bode- 
 win's allusion to his relations with Harkins 
 through the death of his sister. Josephine laid 
 down the letter and repeated to him the story of 
 Ellen Eustis's death. 
 
 "Was that the 'obligation' the 'delicate per 
 sonal obligation' that Bodewin suffered from?" 
 Hillbury exclaimed. "Poor fellow!" he added 
 gently. Bodewin's family pride and his sensitive- 
 
338 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 ness through his sister would be sure to touch 
 ;j Hillbury far more nearly than any entanglement 
 of sentiment, of gratitude, with a young woman 
 j\of a class beneath him. 
 
 "How strange that he never told you that 
 story!" Josephine murmured in the pause. 
 
 "May I add how strange that he told it to 
 you!" 
 
 Josephine hung her head. "Before the trial," 
 she explained falteringly, " he had told me many 
 things about himself which our short acquaint 
 ance did not entitle me to know. But it came 
 about through my presuming to ask him why he 
 would not be my father's witness." Josephine 
 felt how Hillbury would regard this statement. 
 When the story had progressed as far as the 
 scene on the porch, when Babe had submitted to 
 have her eye treated, the reader laid the letter 
 down and looked at Hillbury. "Is it not true," 
 she said, "that proofs can lie? The only thing 
 that can be trusted is character. A man thirty 
 years old should have one. His friends, I think, 
 should know what it is, and forgive me I 
 think they should let no evidence, hardly the evi 
 dence of their senses, shake the faith that has 
 once been given." 
 
JOSEPHINE AND HILLBUEY. 339 
 
 If Josephine was merciless, it was because Hill- 
 bury seemed to her so little moved. 
 
 "Spare me," he said in a low voice. "Yours 
 was the better part; but it is possible that only a 
 man can fully measure a man's temptations. And 
 the effect of a thing seen is tremendous." 
 
 When Josephine had folded the letter, Hillbury 
 rose and walked slowly towards the window 
 where she sat. He still held his hat and gloves, 
 and as he bent over her hand in farewell, he 
 looked merely a perfectly dressed and irreproach 
 able afternoon visitor taking his leave. Yet never 
 in his life before had he been so deeply moved. 
 
 "What I have learned from you, Miss Newbold, 
 makes it necessary that I should see John Bode- 
 win as soon as possible. Can you tell where he is ? " 
 
 "I have no idea," said Josephine. 
 
 "Does his letter give no clew?" 
 
 She shook her head. Her overwrought nerves 
 were giving way and she could not trust herself 
 to speak. 
 
 "Wherever he is," said Hillbury slowly, in his 
 fine, sad accent, "I will find him, if he be living. 
 When I see him I shall wish to say to him the 
 thing that will be most comforting. He must be 
 very sore " He waited a moment. Josephine 
 
340 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 could not speak. "Your perceptions throughout 
 have been so much truer than mine," he con 
 tinued, " Can you not give me the right words 
 to say? There must be no more blundering. 
 What shall I say that will be most sure to bring 
 him back to us?" 
 
 "Oh," said Josephine, "if you find him, tell 
 him I wish to see him ; I have something to say 
 to him myself." 
 
 "I will find him," Hillbury repeated, "and he 
 will come." 
 
 As Hillbury walked back to his hotel he said to 
 himself that the time had now come for testing 
 the strength of those ideals to which he had 
 pledged his manhood. Had not this visit ended 
 better than his dream had planned ? What happi 
 ness was there that a man should put before the 
 truth and his own duty? And was his duty, then, 
 so hard? To clear up a cruel misconception, to 
 reverse an unjust judgment, to help a friend to 
 the bliss that he must himself resign 
 
 "I will find him, and he will come!" Many 
 times in the days that followed Hillbury's visit, 
 Josephine repeated these words to herself, and 
 saw again his sad yet satisfied smile of prophecy. 
 She lived upon the words until the promise was 
 fulfilled. 
 
CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 THE DESERT STATION. 
 
 ONE day of the following summer an overland 
 train, westward bound, left two of its passengers 
 at a station on the desert plains, consisting of one 
 frame house, a " dug-out," a section house, and a 
 water-tank. It was not a meal station; no 
 through train would stop there until the following 
 day. A conveyance called a "jerky" would 
 arrive in two hours' time from some obscure habi 
 tation of men in the desert, arid continue thence 
 to its next stopping-place, thirty miles away. 
 But even this poor chance of rescue was not 
 known to the sympathetic carload of passengers 
 who were now abandoning two of their number 
 to their fate. 
 
 The self-devoted ones were a woman in her 
 
 first youth and a man not so young by several 
 
 years. Both were interesting in appearance, and, 
 
 as if to complete the contrast between herself and 
 
 341 
 
342 
 
 her surroundings, the girl was quietly but intelli 
 gently dressed in the height of the summer's fash 
 ion for young lady tourists, in the world where 
 the fashions are a record of the seasons as they 
 pass. While her companion was directing the 
 porter who carried their hand-luggage, the young 
 woman walked to the end of the short platform 
 and stood there looking before her eagerly. In 
 her happy eyes there was something like recogni 
 tion of the scene, or a remembrance of some other 
 scene which it vividly recalled. Strongly char 
 acterized as it was, there was indeed nothing sin 
 gular in the view. Hundreds of miles of such 
 country can be seen by the traveller west of the 
 Missouri River. The sage-brush was turning 
 gray with the long summer's deepening dust; 
 the blue of the cloudless sky was darker than the 
 sun-blanched plain ; rising afar off where sky and 
 desert meet, a range of peaks showed their snow- 
 covered tops, like white sails on the horizon. 
 
 The young girl and her travelling companion 
 stood side by side as the train moved off, watch 
 ing the little colony, of which they had lately 
 been a part, receding from their gaze down the 
 lessening lines of the track. Two or three heads 
 looked back at them from open windows. A 
 
THE DESEKT STATION. 343 
 
 young man sitting on the steps of the rear car 
 waved his hat to them, with the compassion of 
 one who goes with the majority for the pathetic 
 minority left behind. 
 
 The two who were in the minority did not re 
 spond ; they turned and smiled at each other. 
 
 " They are sorry for us ! " said Josephine. 
 
 The man on the rear car was a mere speck in 
 the distance. Bodewin stooped and kissed her 
 for the look with which she said those words. 
 
 The noise of the train died away and they were 
 left standing alone on the heated boards of the 
 platform, enfolded in the stillness of the desert. 
 Gradually their stunned ears became accustomed 
 to the fainter range of sounds around them. The 
 ticket agent, who had partially satisfied his curi 
 osity with regard to them, and returned to the 
 solitude of his official duties, could be heard rust 
 ling a newspaper and grating a chair across the 
 floor within. The hurried click, click of the tele 
 graph machine asserted itself imperatively, like 
 the voice of the world they had left warning them 
 to come back. The wind from off the desert, 
 blowing in their faces, seemed to call to them 
 from that unknown region whither they were 
 venturing together. Josephine lifted her out- 
 
344 JOHN BODEWIN'S TESTIMONY. 
 
 stretched arms and welcomed it with a thrill of 
 joy that was keen with the memory of pain. It 
 was the wind of the high valley where she and 
 Bode win had ridden together it was the plain's 
 wind that had rattled the dusty lattices outside of 
 the room where she lay, alone with her anguish, 
 the evening after the trial. 
 
 Wind of the great Far West, soft, electric, and 
 strong, blowing up through gates of the great 
 mountain ranges, over miles of dry savannah, 
 where its playmates are the roving bands of wild 
 horses, and the dust of the trails which it weaves 
 into spiral clouds and carries like banners before 
 it ! Wind of prophecy and of hope, of tireless 
 energy and desire that life shall not satisfy. 
 Who that has heard its call in the desert, or its 
 whisper in the mountain valleys, can resist the 
 longing to follow, to prove the hope, to test the 
 prophecy ! 
 
THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ 
 
 This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. 
 
 
 -i i^. 
 
 t 3 QRffiB 
 MAY 2 
 
 
 QCTl'3'75 
 
 
 SEP 10 '80 
 
 SP '80 
 
 Om-12,'70(P1251s8)2373-3A,l 
 
3 2106 00206 853