British -- United States -- Fiction; Epistolary fiction; Married women -- Fiction; Voyages and travels -- Fiction
That night when he lay in the straw, she crept out of some corner where
she slept, and warned him not to remain, if he had gold in the bags, or
they would certainly murder him before morning; and she gave him some
water, and half her wretched supper, because he had been too tired to
eat when he arrived. Then he told her he was only a poor cowboy, hoping
to get on to the Great Eagles Camp and make his fortune; and they
stayed there talking till dawn, and she bathed his poor feet, all
bleeding from his long tramp, and must have been too sweet and
adorable, Mamma. And when the morning came and her adopted parents
found he was still there and had only ten cents to pay with, they tried
to make him leave, and beat Hearts-ease before his eyes, which made him
so mad he got out his gun (that means revolver) and would have shot the
man, only Hearts-ease clung to him, and begged him not to. Then they
called in some more brutes, who had been drinking and gambling all
night in the bar, and overpowered him, and threw him out, and the girl,
too, and said he might take her to hell with him, they would shelter
her no more. And one of the brutes said he would fight him for her, and
they made a ring and the brute tried to get his pistol off first; but
it hit another man, and before he could shoot again, the Senator fired
and wounded him in the side; and as he fell, and the others, angry at
his hitting one of them, all began to quarrel together, the Senator and
the girl slipped away, and ran and hid in the scrub. If you could have
heard him telling all this, Mamma, in the dying light, his strong face
and quiet voice so impressive! I shall never forget it. Well, the girl
had brought some bread in a handkerchief, which he had not eaten, and
they shared that together, and when it was dark they slept under the
stars; and "by then I'd just grown to love her," he said, and "we were
quite content to die together if we couldn't push on to the big camp;
but we meant to make an almighty try."
They did get there, finally, and the sheriff married them, and here his
voice broke a little and was so low I could hardly hear him. There were
no two people ever so happy, he said. He built a little shack of boards
not twelve feet long, "way up on the mountain," and she kept it like a
new pin, and was dainty and sweet and loving, and when he came in from
the mines she would run to meet him "as gentle as a fawn," and he never
wanted to go to the saloons or drink like the other men, "though I was
always pretty handy with my gun," he said, "and had been through the
whole ugly show."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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