On the Frontier

by Bret Harte

  CHAPTER II

  The wind and rain had cleared the unfrequented suburb of any observantlounger, and the darkness, lit only by far-spaced, gusty lamps, hidher hastening figure. She had barely crossed the second street when sheheard the quick clatter of hoofs behind her; a buggy drove up to thecurbstone, and Poindexter leaped out. She entered quickly, but for amoment he still held the reins of the impatient horse. "He's ratherfresh," he said, eying her keenly; "are you sure you can manage him?"

  "Give me the reins," she said simply.

  He placed them in the two firm, well-shaped hands that reached from thedepths of the vehicle, and was satisfied. Yet he lingered.

  "It's rough work for a lone woman," he said, almost curtly. "I can'tgo with you, but, speak frankly, is there any man you know whom you cantrust well enough to take? It's not too late yet; think a moment!"

  He paused over the buttoning of the leather apron of the vehicle.

  "No, there is none," answered the voice from the interior; "and it'sbetter so. Is all ready?"

  "One moment more." He had recovered his half-bantering manner. "You HAVEa friend and countryman already with you, do you know? Your horse isBlue Grass. Good night."

  With these words ringing in her ears she began her journey. The horse,as if eager to maintain the reputation which his native district hadgiven his race, as well as the race of the pretty woman behind him,leaped impatiently forward. But pulled together by the fine and firmfingers that seemed to guide rather than check his exuberance, hepresently struck into the long, swinging pace of his kind, and kept itthroughout without "break" or acceleration. Over the paved streets thelight buggy rattled, and the slender shafts danced around his smoothbarrel, but when they touched the level high-road, horse and vehicleslipped forward through the night, a swift and noiseless phantom. Mrs.Tucker could see his graceful back dimly rising and falling before herwith tireless rhythm, and could feel the intelligent pressure of hismouth until it seemed the responsive grasp of a powerful but kindlyhand. The faint glow of conquest came to her cold cheek; the slightstirrings of pride moved her preoccupied heart. A soft light filled herhazel eyes. A desolate woman, bereft of husband and home, and flyingthrough storm and night, she knew not where, she still leaned forwardtowards her horse. "Was he Blue Grass, then, dear old boy?" she gentlycooed at him in the darkness. He evidently WAS, and responded by blowingher an ostentatious equine kiss. "And he would be good to his ownforsaken Belle," she murmured caressingly, "and wouldn't let any oneharm her?" But here, overcome by the lazy witchery of her voice, heshook his head so violently that Mrs. Tucker, after the fashion of hersex, had the double satisfaction of demurely restraining the passion shehad evoked.

  To avoid the more traveled thoroughfare, while the evening was stillearly, it had been arranged that she should at first take a less directbut less frequented road. This was a famous pleasure-drive from SanFrancisco, a graveled and sanded stretch of eight miles to the sea andan ultimate "cocktail," in a "stately pleasure-dome decreed" among thesurf and rocks of the Pacific shore. It was deserted now, and left tothe unobstructed sweep of the wind and rain. Mrs. Tucker would not havechosen this road. With the instinctive jealousy of a bucolic inland raceborn by great rivers, she did not like the sea; and again the dim anddreary waste tended to recall the vision connected with her husband'sflight, upon which she had resolutely shut her eyes. But when she hadreached it the road suddenly turned, following the trend of the beach,and she was exposed to the full power of its dread fascinations. Thecombined roar of sea and shore was in her ears; as the direct force ofthe gale had compelled her to furl the protecting hood of the buggyto keep the light vehicle from oversetting or drifting to leeward, shecould no longer shut out the heaving chaos on the right from which thepallid ghosts of dead and dying breakers dimly rose and sank as if inawful salutation. At times through the darkness a white sheet appearedspread before the path and beneath the wheels of the buggy, which, whenwithdrawn with a reluctant hiss, seemed striving to drag the exhaustedbeach seaward with it. But the blind terror of her horse, who swerved atevery sweep of the surge, shamed her own half-superstitious fears,and with the effort to control his alarm she regained her ownself-possession, albeit with eyelashes wet not altogether with the saltspray from the sea. This was followed by a reaction, perhaps stimulatedby her victory over the beaten animal, when for a time, she knew not howlong, she felt only a mad sense of freedom and power; oblivious ofeven her sorrows, her lost home and husband, and with intense feminineconsciousness she longed to be a man. She was scarcely aware that thetrack turned again inland until the beat of the horse's hoofs on thefirm ground and an acceleration of speed showed her she had left thebeach and the mysterious sea behind her, and she remembered that she wasnear the end of the first stage of her journey. Half an hour later thetwinkling lights of the roadside inn where she was to change horses roseout of the darkness.

  Happily for her, the ostler considered the horse, who had a localreputation, of more importance than the unknown muffled figure in theshadow of the unfurled hood, and confined his attention to the animal.After a careful examination of his feet and a few comments addressedsolely to the superior creation, he led him away. Mrs. Tucker would haveliked to part more affectionately from her four-footed compatriot, andfelt a sudden sense of loneliness at the loss of her new friend, but arecollection of certain cautions of Captain Poindexter's kept her mute.Nevertheless, the ostler's ostentatious adjuration of "Now then, aren'tyou going to bring out that mustang for the Senora?" puzzled her. It wasnot until the fresh horse was put to, and she had flung a piece of goldinto the attendant's hand, that the "Gracias" of his unmistakable Saxonspeech revealed to her the reason of the lawyer's caution. Poindexterhad evidently represented her to these people as a native Californianwho did not speak English. In her inconsistency her blood took fire atthis first suggestion of deceit, and burned in her face. Why should hetry to pass her off as anybody else? Why should she not use her own, herhusband's name? She stopped and bit her lip.

  It was but the beginning of an uneasy train of thought. She suddenlyfound herself thinking of her visitor, Calhoun Weaver, and notpleasantly. He would hear of their ruin tomorrow, perhaps of her ownflight. He would remember his visit, and what would he think of herdeceitful frivolity? Would he believe that she was then ignorant of thefailure? It was her first sense of any accountability to others thanherself, but even then it was rather owing to an uneasy consciousness ofwhat her husband must feel if he were subjected to the criticisms ofmen like Calhoun. She wondered if others knew that he had kept herin ignorance of his flight. Did Poindexter know it, or had he onlyentrapped her into the admission? Why had she not been clever enoughto make him think that she knew it already? For the moment she hatedPoindexter for sharing that secret. Yet this was again followed by anew impatience of her husband's want of insight into her ability to helphim. Of course the poor fellow could not bear to worry her, couldnot bear to face such men as Calhoun, or even Poindexter (she addedexultingly to herself), but he might have sent her a line as he fled,only to prepare her to meet and combat the shame alone. It did not occurto her unsophisticated singleness of nature that she was accepting as anerror of feeling what the world would call cowardly selfishness.

  At midnight the storm lulled and a few stars trembled through the rentclouds. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and her countryinstincts, a little overlaid by the urban experiences of the last fewyears, came again to the surface. She felt the fresh, cool radiationfrom outlying, upturned fields, the faint, sad odors from dim stretchesof pricking grain and quickening leaf, and wondered if at Los Cuervosit might be possible to reproduce the peculiar verdure of her nativedistrict. She beguiled her fancy by an ambitious plan of retrievingtheir fortunes by farming; her comfortable tastes had lately rebelledagainst the homeless mechanical cultivation of these desolate butteeming Californian acres, and for a moment indulged in a vision ofa vine-clad cottage home that in any other woman would have beensentimental. Her cramped limbs aching
, she took advantage of thesecurity of the darkness and the familiar contiguity of the fields toget down from the vehicle, gather her skirts together, and run at thehead of the mustang, until her chill blood was thawed, night drawing amodest veil over this charming revelation of the nymph and woman. Butthe sudden shadow of a coyote checked the scouring feet of this swiftCamilla, and sent her back precipitately to the buggy. Nevertheless,she was refreshed and able to pursue her journey, until the cold gray ofearly morning found her at the end of her second stage.

  Her route was changed again from the main highway, rendered dangerous bythe approach of day and the contiguity of the neighboring rancheros. Theroad was rough and hilly, her new horse and vehicle in keeping with therudeness of the route--by far the most difficult of her whole journey.The rare wagon tracks that indicated her road were often scarcelydiscernible; at times they led her through openings in the half-clearedwoods, skirted suspicious morasses, painfully climbed the smooth,dome-like hills, or wound along perilous slopes at a dangerous angle.Twice she had to alight and cling to the sliding wheels on one of thosetreacherous inclines, or drag them from impending ruts or immovablemire. In the growing light she could distinguish the distant, low-lyingmarshes eaten by encroaching sloughs and insidious channels, and beyondthem the faint gray waste of the Lower Bay. A darker peninsula in themarsh she knew to be the extreme boundary of her future home: the Ranchode los Cuervos. In another hour she began to descend to the plain, andonce more to approach the main road, which now ran nearly parallelwith her track. She scanned it cautiously for any early traveler; itstretched north and south in apparent unending solitude. She struckinto it boldly, and urged her horse to the top of his speed, until shereached the cross road that led to the rancho. But here she paused andallowed the reins to drop idly on the mustang's back. A singular andunaccountable irresolution seized her. The difficulties of her journeywere over; the rancho lay scarcely two miles away; she had achievedthe most important part of her task in the appointed time, but shehesitated. What had she come for? She tried to recall Poindexter'swords, even her own enthusiasm, but in vain. She was going to takepossession of her husband's property, she knew, that was all. But themeans she had taken seemed now so exaggerated and mysterious for thatsimple end that she began to dread an impending something, or some vaguedanger she had not considered, that she was rushing blindly to meet.Full of this strange feeling she almost mechanically stopped her horseas she entered the cross road.

  From this momentary hesitation a singular sound aroused her. It seemedat first like the swift hurrying by of some viewless courier of theair, the vague alarm of some invisible flying herald, or like theinarticulate cry that precedes a storm. It seemed to rise and fallaround her as if with some changing urgency of purpose. Raising her eyesshe suddenly recognized the two far-stretching lines of telegraph wireabove her head, and knew the aeolian cry of the morning wind along itsvibrating chords. But it brought another and more practical fear to heractive brain. Perhaps even now the telegraph might be anticipating her!Had Poindexter thought of that? She hesitated no longer, but laying thewhip on the back of her jaded mustang again hurried forward.

  As the level horizon grew more distinct, her attention was attracted bythe white sail of a small boat lazily threading the sinuous channel ofthe slough. It might be Poindexter arriving by the more direct routefrom the steamboat that occasionally lay off the ancient embarcadero ofthe Los Cuervos Rancho. But even while watching it her quick ear caughtthe sound of galloping hoofs behind her. She turned quickly and saw shewas followed by a horseman. But her momentary alarm was succeeded bya feeling of relief as she recognized the erect figure and squareshoulders of Poindexter. Yet she could not help thinking that he lookedmore like a militant scout, and less like a cautious legal adviser, thanever.

  With unaffected womanliness she rearranged her slightly disordered hairas he drew up beside her. "I thought you were in yonder boat," she said.

  "Not I," he laughed; "I distanced you by the high road two hours, andhave been reconnoitring, until I saw you hesitate at the cross roads."

  "But who is in the boat?" asked Mrs. Tucker, partly to hide herembarrassment.

  "Only some early Chinese market gardener, I dare say. But you are safenow. You are on your own land. You passed the boundary monument of therancho five minutes ago. Look! All you see before you is yours from theembarcadero to yonder Coast Range."

  The tone of half-raillery did not, however, cheer Mrs. Tucker. Sheshuddered slightly and cast her eyes over the monotonous sea of tule andmeadow.

  "It doesn't look pretty, perhaps," continued Poindexter, "but it's therichest land in the State, and the embarcadero will some day be a town.I suppose you'll call it Blue Grassville. But you seem tired!" he said,suddenly dropping his voice to a tone of half-humorous sympathy.

  Mrs. Tucker managed to get rid of an impending tear under the pretenseof clearing her eyes. "Are we nearly there?" she asked.

  "Nearly. You know," he added with the same half-mischievous,half-sympathizing gayety, "it's not exactly a palace you're comingto. Hardly. It's the old casa that has been deserted for years, but Ithought it better you should go into possession there than take up yourabode at the shanty where your husband's farm-hands are. No one willknow when you take possession of the casa, while the very hour ofyour arrival at the shanty would be known; and if they should make anytrouble--"

  "If they should make any trouble?" repeated Mrs. Tucker, lifting herfrank, inquiring eyes to Poindexter.

  His horse suddenly rearing from an apparently accidental prick of thespur, it was a minute or two before he was able to explain. "I mean ifthis ever comes up as a matter of evidence, you know. But here we are!"

  What had seemed to be an overgrown mound rising like an island out ofthe dead level of the grassy sea now resolved itself into a collectionof adobe walls, eaten and incrusted with shrubs and vines, thatbore some resemblance to the usual uninhabited-looking exterior of aSpanish-American dwelling. Apertures that might have been lance-shapedwindows or only cracks and fissures in the walls were choked up withweeds and grass, and gave no passing glimpse of the interior. Enteringa ruinous corral they came to a second entrance, which proved to be thepatio or courtyard. The deserted wooden corridor, with beams, rafters,and floors whitened by the eternal sun and wind, contained a fewwithered leaves, dryly rotting skins, and thongs of leather, as ifundisturbed by human care. But among these scattered debris of formerlife and habitation there was no noisome or unclean suggestion of decay.A faint, spiced odor of desiccation filled the bare walls. There wasno slime on stone or sun-dried brick. In place of fungus or discoloredmoisture the dust of efflorescence whitened in the obscured corners. Theelements had picked clean the bones of the crumbling tenement ere theyshould finally absorb it.

  A withered old peon woman, who in dress, complexion, and fibrous hairmight have been an animated fragment of the debris, rustled out of a lowvaulted passage and welcomed them with a feeble crepitation. Followingher into the dim interior Mrs. Tucker was surprised to find some slightattempt at comfort and even adornment in the two or three habitableapartments. They were scrupulously clean and dry, two qualities which inher feminine eyes atoned for poverty of material.

  "I could not send anything from San Bruno, the nearest village, withoutattracting attention," explained Poindexter; "but if you can manage topicnic here for a day longer, I'll get one of our Chinese friends here,"he pointed to the slough, "to bring over, for his return cargo fromacross the bay, any necessaries you may want. There is no danger of hisbetraying you," he added, with an ironical smile; "Chinamen and Indiansare, by an ingenious provision of the statute of California, incapableof giving evidence against a white person. You can trust your handmaidenperfectly--even if she can't trust YOU. That is your sacred privilegeunder the constitution. And now, as I expect to catch the up boat tenmiles from hence, I must say 'good-by' until to-morrow night. I hopeto bring you then some more definite plans for the future. The worst isover." He held her hand for a moment,
and with a graver voice continued,"You have done it very well--do you know--very well!"

  In the slight embarrassment produced by his sudden change of manner shefelt that her thanks seemed awkward and restrained. "Don't thank me," helaughed, with a prompt return of his former levity, "that's my trade. Ionly advised. You have saved yourself like a plucky woman--shall I saylike Blue Grass? Good-by!" He mounted his horse, but, as if struck by anafter-thought, wheeled and drew up by her side again. "If I were you Iwouldn't see many strangers for a day or two, and listen to aslittle news as a woman possibly can." He laughed again, waved her ahalf-gallant, half-military salute, and was gone. The question she hadbeen trying to frame, regarding the probability of communication withher husband, remained unasked. At least she had saved her pride beforehim.

  Addressing herself to the care of her narrow household, she mechanicallyput away the few things she had brought with her, and began to readjustthe scant furniture. She was a little discomposed at first at theabsence of bolts, locks, and even window-fastenings until assured, byConcha's evident inability to comprehend her concern, that they werequite unknown at Los Cuervos. Her slight knowledge of Spanish was barelysufficient to make her wants known, so that the relief of conversationwith her only companion was debarred her, and she was obliged to contentherself with the sapless, crackling smiles and withered genuflexionsthat the old woman dropped like dead leaves in her path. It was staringnoon when, the house singing like an empty shell in the monotonouswind, she felt she could stand the solitude no longer, and, crossing theglaring patio and whistling corridor, made her way to the open gateway.

  But the view without seemed to intensify her desolation. The broadexpanse of the shadowless plain reached apparently to the Coast Range,trackless and unbroken save by one or two clusters of dwarfed oaks,which at that distance were but mossy excrescences on the surface,barely raised above the dead level. On the other side the marsh tookup the monotony and carried it, scarcely interrupted by undefinedwater-courses, to the faintly marked out horizon line of the remote bay.Scattered and apparently motionless black spots on the meadows that gavea dreary significance to the title of "the Crows" which the rancho bore,and sudden gray clouds of sand-pipers on the marshes, that rose andvanished down the wind, were the only signs of life. Even the white sailof the early morning was gone.

  She stood there until the aching of her straining eyes and thestiffening of her limbs in the cold wind compelled her to seek thesheltered warmth of the courtyard. Here she endeavored to make friendswith a bright-eyed lizard, who was sunning himself in the corridor; agraceful little creature in blue and gold, from whom she felt at othertimes she might have fled, but whose beauty and harmlessness solitudehad made known to her. With misplaced kindness she tempted it withbread-crumbs, with no other effect than to stiffen it into stonyastonishment. She wondered if she should become like the prisonersshe had read of in books, who poured out their solitary affections onnoisome creatures, and she regretted even the mustang, which with thebuggy had disappeared under the charge of some unknown retainer on herarrival. Was she not a prisoner? The shutterless windows, yawning doors,and open gate refuted her suggestion, but the encompassing solitude andtrackless waste still held her captive. Poindexter had told her it wasfour miles to the shanty; she might walk there. Why had she given herword that she would remain at the rancho until he returned?

  The long day crept monotonously away, and she welcomed the nightwhich shut out the dreary prospect. But it brought no cessation ofthe harassing wind without, nor surcease of the nervous irritation itsperpetual and even activity wrought upon her. It haunted her pillow evenin her exhausted sleep, and seemed to impatiently beckon her to rise andfollow it. It brought her feverish dreams of her husband, footsore andweary, staggering forward under its pitiless lash and clamorous outcry;she would have gone to his assistance, but when she reached his side andheld out her arms to him it hurried her past with merciless power, and,bearing her away, left him hopelessly behind. It was broad day when sheawoke. The usual night showers of the waning rainy season had left notrace in sky or meadow; the fervid morning sun had already dried thepatio; only the restless, harrying wind remained.

  Mrs. Tucker arose with a resolve. She had learned from Concha on theprevious evening that a part of the shanty was used as a tienda or shopfor the laborers and rancheros. Under the necessity of purchasing somearticles, she would go there and for a moment mingle with those people,who would not recognize her. Even if they did, her instinct told her itwould be less to be feared than the hopeless uncertainty of another day.As she left the house the wind seemed to seize her as in her dream, andhurry her along with it, until in a few moments the walls of the lowcasa sank into the earth again and she was alone, but for the breeze onthe solitary plain. The level distance glittered in the sharp light, afew crows with slant wings dipped and ran down the wind before her,and a passing gleam on the marsh was explained by the far-off cry of acurlew.

  She had walked for an hour, upheld by the stimulus of light and morningair, when the cluster of scrub oaks, which was her destination, openedenough to show two rambling sheds, before one of which was a woodenplatform containing a few barrels and bones. As she approached nearer,she could see that one or two horses were tethered under the trees, thattheir riders were lounging by a horse-trough, and that over an open doorthe word Tienda was rudely painted on a board, and as rudely illustratedby the wares displayed at door and window. Accustomed as she was to thepoverty of frontier architecture, even the crumbling walls of the oldhacienda she had just left seemed picturesque to the rigid angles of thethin, blank, unpainted shell before her. One of the loungers, who wasreading a newspaper aloud as she advanced, put it aside and stared ather; there was an evident commotion in the shop as she stepped upon theplatform, and when she entered, with breathless lips and beating heart,she found herself the object of a dozen curious eyes. Her quick prideresented the scrutiny and recalled her courage, and it was with a slightcoldness in her usual lazy indifference that she leaned over the counterand asked for the articles she wanted.

  The request was followed by a dead silence. Mrs. Tucker repeated it withsome hauteur.

  "I reckon you don't seem to know this store is in the hands of thesheriff," said one of the loungers.

  Mrs. Tucker was not aware of it.

  "Well, I don't know any one who's a better right to know than SpenceTucker's wife," said another with a coarse laugh. The laugh was echoedby the others. Mrs. Tucker saw the pit into which she had deliberatelywalked, but did not flinch.

  "Is there any one to serve here?" she asked, turning her clear eyes fullupon the bystanders.

  "You'd better ask the sheriff. He was the last one to SARVE here.He sarved an attachment," replied the inevitable humorist of allCalifornian assemblages.

  "Is he here?" asked Mrs. Tucker, disregarding the renewed laughter whichfollowed this subtle witticism.

  The loungers at the door made way for one of their party, who was halfdragged, half pushed into the shop. "Here he is," said half a dozeneager voices, in the fond belief that his presence might impartadditional humor to the situation. He cast a deprecating glance at Mrs.Tucker and said, "It's so, madam! This yer place is attached; but ifthere's anything you're wanting, why I reckon, boys,"--he turned halfappealingly to the crowd,--"we could oblige a lady." There was a vaguesound of angry opposition and remonstrance from the back door ofthe shop, but the majority, partly overcome by Mrs. Tucker's beauty,assented. "Only," continued the officer explanatorily, "ez these yergoods are in the hands of the creditors, they ought to be represented byan equivalent in money. If you're expecting they should be charged--"

  "But I wish to PAY for them," interrupted Mrs. Tucker, with a slightflush of indignation; "I have the money."

  "Oh, I bet you have!" screamed a voice, as, overturning all opposition,the malcontent at the back door, in the shape of an infuriated woman,forced her way into the shop. "I'll bet you have the money! Look at her,boys! Look at the wife of the thief, with the stol
en money in diamondsin her ears and rings on her fingers. SHE'S got money if WE'VE none.SHE can pay for what she fancies, if we haven't a cent to redeem the bedthat's stolen from under us. Oh yes, buy it all, Mrs. Spencer Tucker!buy the whole shop, Mrs. Spencer Tucker, do you hear? And if you ain'tsatisfied then, buy my clothes, my wedding ring, the only things yourhusband hasn't stolen."

  "I don't understand you," said Mrs. Tucker coldly, turning towards thedoor. But with a flying leap across the counter her relentless adversarystood between her and retreat.

  "You don't understand! Perhaps you don't understand that your husbandnot only stole the hard labor of these men, but even the little moneythey brought here and trusted to his thieving hands. Perhaps you don'tknow that he stole my husband's hard earnings, mortgaged these verygoods you want to buy, and that he is to-day a convicted thief, aforger, and a runaway coward. Perhaps, if you can't understand ME,you can read the newspaper. Look!" She exultingly opened the paper thesheriff had been reading aloud, and pointed to the displayed headlines."Look! there are the very words, 'Forgery, Swindling, Embezzlement!' Doyou see? And perhaps you can't understand this. Look! 'Shameful Flight.Abandons his Wife. Runs off with a Notorious--'"

  "Easy, old gal, easy now. D--n it! Will you dry up? I say. STOP!"

  It was too late!

  The sheriff had dashed the paper from the woman's hand, but not untilMrs. Tucker had read a single line, a line such as she had sometimesturned from with weary scorn in her careless perusal of the dailyshameful chronicle of domestic infelicity. Then she had coldly wonderedif there could be any such men and women; and now! The crowd fell backbefore her; even the virago was silenced as she looked at her face.The humorist's face was as white, but not as immobile, as he gasped,"Christ! if I don't believe she knew nothin' of it!"

  For a moment the full force of such a supposition, with all itspoignancy, its dramatic intensity, and its pathos, possessed the crowd.In the momentary clairvoyance of enthusiasm they caught a glimpse of thetruth, and by one of the strange reactions of human passion they onlywaited for a word of appeal or explanation from her lips to throwthemselves at her feet. Had she simply told her story they would havebelieved her; had she cried, fainted, or gone into hysterics, they wouldhave pitied her. She did neither. Perhaps she thought of neither, orindeed of anything that was then before her eyes. She walked erect tothe door and turned upon the threshold. "I mean what I say," she saidcalmly. "I don't understand you. But whatever just claims you have uponmy husband will be paid by me, or by his lawyer, Captain Poindexter."

  She had lost the sympathy but not the respect of her hearers. They madeway for her with sullen deference as she passed out on the platform. Buther adversary, profiting by the last opportunity, burst into an ironicallaugh.

  "Captain Poindexter, is it? Well, perhaps he's safe to pay YOUR bill,but as for your husband's--"

  "That's another matter," interrupted a familiar voice with the greatestcheerfulness; "that's what you were going to say, wasn't it? Ha! ha!Well, Mrs. Patterson," continued Poindexter, stepping from his buggy,"you never spoke a truer word in your life. One moment, Mrs. Tucker. Letme send you back in the buggy. Don't mind ME. I can get a fresh horse ofthe sheriff. I'm quite at home here. I say, Patterson, step a few pacesthis way, will you? A little further from your wife, please. That'lldo. You've got a claim of five thousand dollars against the property,haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, that woman just driving away is your one solitary chance ofgetting a cent of it. If your wife insults her again, that chance isgone. And if YOU do--"

  "Well?"

  "As sure as there is a God in Israel and a Supreme Court of the State ofCalifornia, I'll kill you in your tracks! . . . Stay!"

  Patterson turned. The irrepressible look of humorous tolerance of allhuman frailty had suffused Poindexter's black eyes with mischievousmoisture. "If you think it quite safe to confide to your wife thisprospect of her improvement by widowhood, you may!"