Bob Hampton of Placer

"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.