The snows have come. They are already fitting runners to the stages. The mails and the 'dust' must get through in spite of all. I go out on the first sleigh; this one you must take. This winter I shall vindicate my name, if it is humanly possible to do so." He kissed the end of one long curl of her hair, and was gone.

Some weeks later, during a lull between storms, Rand's face lit up with the feeling which but one woman in the world could inspire, as the stage pulled in to Middle Fork.

"Father is not quite recovered, but I thought it best to get him out before we were snowed in. Rand, Digger Dan came," she added, in a whisper; "the stage will be stopped today. Yet, it is gathering for a storm. I dare not stay. What shall I do?"

"Come along. I will protect you."

Two miles further, as they topped a hill, Texas, the driver, pulled the laboring six far to the side.

"Why?" asked Rand.

"Cut, there," answered Texas, "an' it's piled high with a drift."

"Look out for stumps."

"I've got 'em spotted," muttered Tex.

"What's that?" swinging his gun quickly to the right. The horses plunged, snorting, quickly to the left, the sleigh hit a snow-covered stump, and it was only Tex's expert driving that saved it from overturning.

"Some animal. I saw his hide." A hide Rand had seen, but it was the coyote-skin coat of an Indian who had made one sign and instantly vanished. Very quickly the dreaded halt came.

"Look out, Tex! There's a rifle barrel from behind that tree trunk."

"Halt!"

"Halt it is. There's nothing we can do." Was it Jo's presence in the stage below that made him give in without a struggle, or did he know that the Wells-Fargo box had vanished from under the driver's seat? Or was it knowledge of the horde of yelling Indians which rose from the snowy brush, and swooped down upon the shooting robbers? Four of them were brought, in triumph, to the town on the stage.

"Where is the express box?" asked the sheriff.

"I do not know," answered Rand, defiantly.

"Cached away up on the mountain, I suppose, where the others are."

"Sir!" thundered Rand, "I have brought in, the bandits, as I promised, to clear my own namen--all but Digger Dan, who escaped. When I say that I do not know what happened to the box, you will please understand that--"

"Here comes Digger Dan now, carrying something."

"No Indian ever carried anything in baskets slung on a pole!"

"Hel-lo, Missie Jo, how you do?" blandly remarked Digger Dan's double.

"Hop Sing!"

"Ketchem Missa Land's money, nis bas-a-kit."

"What's in the other one.

"Nat one, lock (rock). Makern heap easy carry-em."

"Where did you get the box?"

"You savvey place him horse get scare; him wagon, he fa' over top-side down. Him money, he fa' out. Him stop place snow melt away by heap big tlee tlunk. Me see. Missa Land, I know he like. I ketchem."

When Rand took Jo home they were met by a smiling Sing in a snowy white ap.r.o.n.

"Where's the other boy?" asked Jo.

"Him boy? I tellum get out quick, or I killum, sure!"

"Ah Sing, how can I ever thank you for all the six months you've spent in the brush?"

"He all-li, Ma.s.sa Land. You ketchem me come out nat jail. I heap savvey you come see Missie Jo. Missie papa, lo-ong time now, he ketchee me no die. Missie Jo, alla same my girl-o."

"Those Indians--"

"Were Sing's friends, dear, dressed up."

"Chinamen?"

"Yes."

"Sing, where did Digger Dan go to?"

"He go h.e.l.l," remarked Sing, pleasantly. "He lun away to Oustamah (Indian village). Me ketchum. Alla squaw ketchern plenty tar on head, makern big cly (cry, Indian word for wake). Me killum him. Goo-bye, me go cookem velly fine dinner. Missie Jo, Ma.s.sa Land, you get marry now.

Me hope you ketchem plenty boy!" From his point of view what greater blessing could he wish them? Later, he peeked in curiously from the kitchen, but, as kisses are not included in the Chinese curriculum, he failed to be interested and returned to his baking.

The Barstow Lynching

X

"This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I a.s.sure you.

Much more, perchance, might be said-- but I hold him of all men most lightly Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you Well, since you are pressing, Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim--no sugar."

--Bret Harte.

Contests of every sort were the order of the day in '49. Any ferocious encounter which would promulgate betting was countenanced, and even encouraged. There were dog fights, bull fights, bobcat or mountain lynx fights, and fights between game chickens.

The tale is even told of cootie fights during long, rainy winter evenings which must be spent indoors. The harborers of the contestants simply reached under their shirts, drew forth a doughty grey-backed warrior, placed him on a child's slate which was used as an arena, and the fight was on.

A camp named Lousy Level is said to have made a specialty of this sort of battle. Thousands of dollars were sometimes bet upon the outcome.

Arguments arising from various combats often developed into robbing, murdering and lynching. This, then, is the tale of a certain lynching.