They of the High Trails. Garland Hamlin

she declared, and she meant it.

      "All right, I'll shut up; but I want to tell you I'm a trailer for keeps, and you can't lose me, no matter where you go. From this time on I forget everything in the world but you."

      With a look of resolute reproof she rose and joined Mrs. James in the inner room, leaving Roy cowed and a good deal alarmed.

      "I reckon I'm a little too swift," he admitted; "but, oh, my soul! she's a peach!"

      When the train whistled, Lida came out again. "Will you please go to meet the doctor?" she asked, with no trace of resentment in her manner.

      "Sure thing; I was just about starting," he replied, instantly.

      While he was gone she asked Mrs. James if she knew the young man, and was much pleased to find that the sharp-tongued landlady had only good words to say of Roy Pierce.

      "He's no ordinary cowboy," she explained. "If he makes up to you you needn't shy."

      "Who said he was making up to me? I never saw him before."

      "I want to know! Well, anybody could see with half an eye that he was naturally rustlin' round you. I thought you'd known each other for years."

      This brought tears of mortification to the girl's eyes. "I didn't mean to be taken that way. Of course I couldn't help being grateful, after all he'd done; but I think it's a shame to be so misunderstood. It's mean and low down of him – and poor uncle so sick."

      "Now don't make a hill out of an ant-heap," said the old woman, vigorously. "No harm's done. You're a mighty slick girl, and these boys don't see many like you out here in the sage-brush and piñons. Facts are, you're kind o' upsettin' to a feller like Roy. You make him kind o' drunk-like. He don't mean to be sassy."

      "Well, I wish you'd tell him not to do anything more for me. I don't want to get any deeper in debt to him."

      The Claywall physician came into the little room as silently as a Piute. He was a plump, dark little man of impassive mien, but seemed to know his business. He drove the girl out of the room, but drafted Mrs. James and Roy into service.

      "It's merely a case of indigestion," said he; "but it's plenty serious enough. You see, the distended stomach pressing against the heart – "

      The girl, sitting in the kitchen and hearing the swift and vigorous movement within, experienced a revulsion to the awe and terror of the midnight. For the second time in her life death had come very close to her, but in this case her terror was shot through with the ruddy sympathy of a handsome, picturesque young cavalier. She could not be really angry with him, though she was genuinely shocked by his reckless disregard of the proprieties; for he came at such a dark and lonely and helpless hour, and his prompt and fearless action in silencing those dreadful cowboys was heroic. Therefore, when the doctor sent Roy out to say that her uncle would live, a part of her relief and joy shone upon the young rancher, who was correspondingly exalted.

      "Now you must let me hang round till he gets well," he said, forgetful of all other duties.

      "That reminds me. You'll need some breakfast," she said, hurriedly; "for here comes the sun." And as she spoke the light of the morning streamed like a golden river into the little room.

      "It's me to the wood-pile, then," cried Roy, and his smile was of a piece with the sunshine on the wall.

II

      Beside the fallen monarch of the wood the lifting saplings bud and intertwine. So over the stern old postmaster these young people re-enacted the most primitive drama in the world. Indifferent to the jeers of his fellows, Roy devoted himself to the service of "The Badger's Niece," and was still in town when McCoy returned from "the East"; that is to say, from Kansas City.

      Lida had ceased to protest against the cowboy's attendance and his love-making, for the good reason that her protests were unavailing. He declined to take offense, and he would not remain silent. A part of his devotion was due, of course, to his sense of guilt, and yet this was only a small part. True, he had sent warnings and dire threats to silence his band of marauders; but he did not feel keenly enough about their possible tale-bearing to carry his warnings in person. "I can't spare the time," he argued, knowing that Lida would be going home in a few days and that his world would then be blank.

      "I lose too much of you," he said to her once; "I can't afford to have you out of my sight a minute."

      She had grown accustomed to such speeches as these, and seldom replied to them, except to order the speaker about with ever-increasing tyranny. "You're so anxious to work," she remarked, "I'll let you do a-plenty. You'll get sick o' me soon."

      "Sick of you! Lord heavens! what'll I do when you leave?"

      "You'll go back to your ranch. A fine foreman you must be, fooling round here like a tramp. What does your boss think?"

      "Don't know and don't care. Don't care what anybody thinks – but you. You're my only landmark these days. You're my sun, moon, and stars, that's what you are. I set my watch by you."

      "You're crazy!" she answered, with laughter.

      "Sure thing! Locoed, we call it out here. You've got me locoed – you're my pink poison blossom. There ain't any feed that interests me but you. I'm lonesome as a snake-bit cow when I can't see you."

      "Say, do you know Uncle Dan begins to notice you. He asked me to-day what you were hanging round here for, and who you were."

      "What did you tell him?"

      "I told him you were McCoy's hired man just helping me take care of him."

      "That's a lie. I'm your hired man. I'm takin' care of you – willing to work for a kiss a day."

      "You'll not get even that."

      "I'm not getting it – yet."

      "You'll never get it."

      "Don't be too sure of that. My life-work is collecting my dues. I've got 'em all set down. You owe me a dozen for extra jobs, and a good hug for overtime."

      She smiled derisively, and turned the current. "The meals you eat are all of a dollar a day."

      "They're worth a bushel of diamonds – when you cook 'em. But let me ask you something – is your old dad as fierce as Uncle Dan?"

      She nodded. "You bet he is! He's crusty as old crust. Don't you go up against my daddy with any little bank-book. It's got to be a fat wad, and, mind you, no cloves on your breath, either. He's crabbed on the drink question; that's why he settled in Colorado Springs. No saloons there, you know."

      He considered a moment. "Much obliged. Now here's something for you. You're not obliged to hand out soft words and a sweet smile to every doggone Injun that happens to call for mail. Stop it. Why, you'll have all the cow-punchers for fifty miles around calling for letters. That bunch that was in here just now was from Steamboat Springs. Their mail don't come here; it comes by way of Wyoming. They were runnin' a bluff. It makes me hot to have such barefaced swindling going on. I won't stand for it."

      "Well, you see, I'm not really deputized to handle the mail, so I must be careful not to make anybody mad – "

      "Anybody but me. I don't count."

      "Oh, you wouldn't complain, I know that."

      "I wouldn't, hey? Sure of that? Well, I'm going to start a petition to have myself made postmaster – "

      "Better get Uncle Dan out first," she answered, with a sly smile. "The office won't hold you both."

      At the end of a week the old postmaster was able to hobble to the window and sort the mail, but the doctor would not consent to his cooking his own meals.

      "If you can stay another week," he said to Lida, "I think you'd better do it. He isn't really fit to live alone."

      Thereupon she meekly submitted, and continued to keep house in the little kitchen for herself, her uncle, and for Roy, who still came regularly to her table, bringing more than his share of provisions, however. She was a good deal puzzled by the change which had come over him of late. He was less gay, less confident of manner, and he often fell into fits of abstraction.

      He