might in her last letter––to look after Cousin Mary. And I do hope you’ve finished the painting she said was going on at the parsonage––so you can take me in there till my transportation comes and I can start East. This kind gentleman, who’s going up on to-night’s train, has been offering––and it’s just as good of him, even if I can’t go––to escort me home to my dear baby; and he’s been giving me in the sweetest way his sympathy over my dear husband Captain Chiswick’s loss.”

Hill said he never knowed anybody take cards as quick as Santa Fé took the cards the Hen was giving him. “I’m very happy to meet you, sir,” he said to the old gent; “and most grateful to you for your kindness to my poor niece Rachel in her distress. We have been sorrowing over her during Captain Chiswick’s long and painful illness––”

“My dear Captain had been sick for three months, and got up out of his bed to go and be killed with his men by those dreadful Apaches,” the Hen cut in.

“––and when the news came of the massacre,” Charley went right on, as cool as an iced drink, “our hearts almost broke for her. Captain Chiswick was a splendid gentleman, sir; one of the finest officers ever sent out to this Territory. His loss is a bad thing for the service; but it is a worse thing for my poor niece––left forsaken along with her sweet babes. They are noble children, sir; worthy of their noble sire!”

“Oh, Uncle Charley!” said the Hen. “Didn’t you get my letter telling you my little Jane died of croup? I’ve only my little Willy, now!” And she kind of gagged.

“My poor child. My poor child!” said Santa Fé. “I did not know that death had winged a double dart at you like that––your letter never came.” And then he said to the old gent: “The mail service in this Territory, sir, is a disgrace to the country. The Government ought to be ashamed!”

Hill said while they was giving it and taking it that way he most choked––particular as the old gent just gulped it all down whole.

Hill said the three of ’em was sort of quiet 34 and sorrowful for a minute, and then Santa Fé said: “It is too bad, Rachel, but your Aunt Jane did have to go up to Denver yesterday––a despatch came saying Cousin Mary’s taken worse. And the parsonage is in such a mess still with the painters that I’ve moved over to the Forest Queen Hotel. But you can come there too––it’s kept by an officer’s widow, you know, and is most quiet and respectable––and you’ll be almost as comfortable waiting there till your transportation comes along as you would be if I could take you home.”

Hill said hearing the Forest Queen talked about as quiet and respectable, and Santa Fé’s so sort of off-hand making an officer’s widow out of old Tenderfoot Sal, set him to shaking at such a rate he had to get to where there was a keg of railroad spikes and set down on it and hold his sides with both hands.

Santa Fé turned to the old gent, Hill said––talking as polite as a Pullman conductor––and told him since he’d been so kind to his unhappy niece he hoped he’d come along 35 with ’em to the hotel too––where he’d be more comfortable, Santa Fé said, getting something to eat and drink than he would be kicking around the deepo waiting till they’d filled in the wash-out and the train could start.

Hill said the Hen give Santa Fé a queer sort of look at that, as much as to ask him if he was dead sure he had the cards for that lead. Santa Fé give her a look back again, as much as to say he knew what was and what wasn’t on the table; and then he went on to the old gent, speaking pleasant, telling him likely it might be a little bit noisy over at the hotel––doing her best, he said, Mrs. Major Rogers couldn’t help having noise sometimes, things being so rough and tumble out there on the frontier; but he had a private room for his study, where he wrote his sermons, he said, and got into it by a side door––and so he guessed things wouldn’t be too bad.

That seemed to make the Hen easy, Hill said; and away the three of ’em went together to the Forest Queen. Hill knowed it 36 was straight enough about the private room and the side door––Santa Fé had it to do business in for himself, on the quiet, when he didn’t have to deal; and Hill’d known of a good many folks who’d gone in that private room by that side door and hadn’t come out again till Santa Fé’d scooped their pile. But it wasn’t no business of his, he said; and he said he was glad to get shut of ’em so he might have a chance to let out the laughing that fairly was hurting his insides.

As they was going away from the deepo, Hill said, he heard Santa Fé telling the old gent he was sorry it was getting so dark––as he’d like to take him round so he could see the parsonage, and the new church they’d just finished building and was going to put an organ in as soon as they’d raised more funds; but it wasn’t worth while going out of their way, he said, because they wouldn’t show to no sort of advantage with the light so bad. As the only church in Palomitas was the Mexican mud one about two hundred years old, and as the nearest thing to a parsonage was the Padre’s house that Denver 37 Jones had rented and had his faro-bank in, Hill said he guessed Charley acted sensible in not trying to show the old gent around that part of the town.

Hill said after he’d got his supper he thought he’d come down to the deepo and sort of wait around there; on the chance he’d ketch on––when the old gent come over to the train––to what Santa Fé and the Hen’d been putting up on him. Sure enough, he did.

Along about ten o’clock a starting-order come down––the track-gang by that time having the wash-out so near fixed it would be fit by the time the train got there to go across; and Wood––he was the agent, Wood was––sent word over to the Forest Queen to the old gent, who was the only Pullman passenger, he’d better be coming along.

In five minutes or so he showed up. He wasn’t in the best shape, Hill said, and Santa Fé and the Hen each of ’em was giving him an arm; though what he seemed to need more’n arms, Hill said, was legs––the 38 ones he had, judging from the way he couldn’t manage ’em, not being in first-class order and working bad. But he didn’t make no exhibition of himself, and talked right enough––only he spoke sort of short and scrappy––and the three of ’em was as friendly together as friendly could be. Hill said he didn’t think it was any hurt to listen, things being the way they was, and he edged up close to ’em––while they stood waiting for the porter to light up the Pullman––and though he couldn’t quite make sense of all they was saying he did get on to enough of it to size up pretty close how they’d put the old gent through.

“Although it is for my struggling church, a weak blade of grass in the desert,” Santa Fé was saying when Hill got the range of ’em, “I cannot but regret having taken from you your splendid contribution to our parish fund in so unusual, I might almost say in so unseemly, a way. That I have returned to you a sufficient sum to enable you to prosecute your journey to its conclusion places you under no obligation to me. Indeed, I 39 could not have done less––considering the very liberal loan that you have made to my poor niece to enable her to return quickly to her helpless babe. As I hardly need tell you, that loan will be returned promptly––as soon as Mrs. Captain Chiswick gets East and is