On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings the Miners' Retreat was a

scene of wild hilarity, for it was then that Mr. Moffat, gorgeously

arrayed in all the bright hues of his imported Mexican outfit, his long

silky mustaches properly curled, his melancholy eyes vast wells of

mysterious sorrow, was known to be comfortably seated in the Herndon

parlor, relating gruesome tales of wild mountain adventure which paled

the cheeks of his fair and entranced listener. Then on Tuesday,

Thursday, and Saturday nights, when Mr. McNeil rode gallantly in on his

yellow bronco, bedecked in all the picturesque paraphernalia of the

boundless plains, revolver swinging at thigh, his wide sombrero

shadowing his dare-devil eyes, the front of the gay Occidental blazed

with lights, and became crowded to the doors with enthusiastic herders

drinking deep to the success of their representative.

It is no more than simple justice to the fair Phoebe to state that she

was, as her aunt expressed it, "in a dreadful state of mind." Between

these two picturesque and typical knights of plain and mountain she

vibrated, unable to make deliberate choice. That she was ardently

loved by each she realized with recurring thrills of pleasure; that she

loved in return she felt no doubt--but alas! which? How perfectly

delightful it would be could she only fall into some desperate plight,

from which the really daring knight might rescue her! That would cut

the Gordian knot. While laboring in this state of indecision she must

have voiced her ambition in some effective manner to the parties

concerned, for late one Wednesday night Moffat tramped heavily into the

Miners' Retreat and called Long Pete Lumley over into a deserted corner

of the bar-room.

"Well, Jack," the latter began expectantly, "hev ye railly got the

cinch on that cowboy at last, hey?"

"Dern it all, Pete, I 'm blamed if I know; leastwise, I ain't got no

sure prove-up. I tell ye thet girl's just about the toughest piece o'

rock I ever had any special call to assay. I think first I got her

good an' proper, an' then she drops out all of a sudden, an' I lose the

lead. It's mighty aggravating let me tell ye. Ye see it's this way.

She 's got some durn down East-notion that she's got ter be rescued,

an' borne away in the arms of her hero (thet's 'bout the way she puts

it), like they do in them pesky novels the Kid 's allers reading and so

I reckon I 've got ter rescue her!"

"Rescue her from whut, Jack? Thar' ain't nuthin' 'round yere just now

as I know of, less it's rats."




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