"Whole--eh--bunch drop dead from fright?" asked McNeil, solicitously.
Moffat glared at him savagely, his lips moving, but emitting no sound.
"Oh, please don't mind," urged his fair listener, her flushed cheeks
betraying her interest. "He is so full of his fun. What did follow?"
The story-teller swallowed something in his throat, his gaze still on
his persecutor. "No, sir," he continued, hoarsely, "them bucks jumped
to their feet with the most awful yells I ever heard, and made a rush
toward where I was standing. They was exactly in a line, and I let
drive at that first buck, and blame me if that slug didn't go plum
through three of 'em, and knock down the fourth. You can roast me
alive if that ain't a fact! The fifth one got away, but I roped the
wounded fellow, and was a-sittin' on him when the rest of the party got
back to camp. Jim Healy was along, and he'll tell you the same story."
There was a breathless silence, during which McNeil spat meditatively
out of the window.
"Save any--eh--locks of their hair?" he questioned, anxiously.
"Oh, please don't tell me anything about that!" interrupted Miss
Spencer, nervously. "The whites don't scalp, do they?"
"Not generally, miss, but I--eh--didn't just know what Mr.
Moffat's--eh--custom was."
The latter gentleman had his head craned out of the window once more,
in an apparent determination to ignore all such frivolous remarks.
Suddenly he pointed directly ahead.
"There's Glencaid now, Miss Spencer," he said, cheerfully, glad enough
of an opportunity to change the topic of conversation. "That's the
spire of the new Presbyterian church sticking up above the ridge."
"Oh, indeed! How glad I am to be here safe at last!"
"How--eh--did you happen to--eh--recognize the church?" asked McNeil
with evident admiration. "You--eh--can't see it from the saloon."
Moffat disdained reply, and the lurching stage rolled rapidly down the
valley, the mules now lashed into a wild gallop to the noisy
accompaniment of the driver's whip.
The hoofs clattered across the narrow bridge, and, with a sudden swing,
all came to a sharp stand, amid a cloud of dust before a naked yellow
house.
"Here 's where you get out, miss," announced the Jehu, leaning down
from his seat to peer within. "This yere is the Herndon shebang."
The gentlemen inside assisted Miss Spencer to descend in safety to the
weed-bordered walk, where she stood shaking her ruffled plumage into
shape, and giving directions regarding her luggage. Then the two
gentlemen emerged, Moffat bearing a grip-case, a bandbox, and a basket,
while McNeil supported a shawl-strap and a small trunk. Thus decorated
they meekly followed her lead up the narrow path toward the front door.
The latter opened suddenly, and Mrs. Herndon bounced forth with
vociferous welcome.