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So thought Miss Fanny Borlan as she looked out of the stage-window, and caught her first glimpse of him just where his path intersected the stage-road; and she would have asked the driver about him, had he not been so near. Mr. Ruger caught sight of her face about that time, and tossing away the cigar, he lifted his hat to her in the most approved style.
Borlan?" queried Ruger. "I reckon we'd better," answered the unscathed. "And while you are waiting, you had better take a cursory glance at Mr. Watson," suggested Ruger. "At the present time he is reposing in the shade of an acacia-bush, just back of the late lamented William Foster's rural habitation. Good-morning, gentlemen; and don't get impatient." If Mr.
Give my respects to Jack, and tell him I will be down in a week or two. Good-morning." While talking, Mr. Ruger had about evenly divided his glances between the very beautiful face of Fanny Borlan and the somewhat expressive countenances of the Ten Milers. Not that he found anything to admire in their damaged physiognomies, but he never wholly ignored the presence of any one.
"I presume he intended to meet you at the settlement You will no doubt find him at the tavern; if not, I will tell him of your arrival, for my way leads through the mines." "Thank you, sir. My brother's name is John Borlan." "I am somewhat acquainted with him," said Mr. Kuger, "though in this region of strange names we call him Jack. My name is Thomas Ruger."
Now, if this had happened up at Quit Claim, Borlan would have had a beautiful tombstone over him long ago. What do you say, Borlan?" The prisoner, thus addressed, cut short some remark he was making, and turned to Watson. "There have been cases where the prisoner had the benefit of a trial, Mr. Watson." "Which is so, Mr. Borlan. Obliged to you fur reminding me. Let's have one, gentlemen.
"Tom, in California style?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye. "Yes, Miss Borlan," he said, also smiling. "Tom Ruger is well known where Thomas Ruger never was heard of. And now I will bid you good-day, Miss Borlan, for I am in something of a hurry to reach the settlement. If I do not find Jack there, I will go on to the mines and tell him."
There is something mysterious in loch-fishing, in the tastes and habits of the fish which inhabit the innumerable lakes and tarns of Scotland. It is not always easy to account either for their presence or their absence, for their numbers or scarcity, their eagerness to take or their "dourness." For example, there is Loch Borlan, close to the well-known little inn of Alt-na-geal-gach in Sutherland.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," he said, as he rode up in front of them. "Not to you, Tom Ruger," spoke a tall Ten Miler the only one, by-the-way, who had come out of the previous day's trial unscathed. "Not to you, Tom Ruger! Where's Borlan?" "He's gone down the coast on business," said Ruger, "and may not be back for several months." "We'll not wait for him" was the miner's reply.
Circumstances pointed to Jack Borlan, and they escorted him down to the settlement. He stood by the bar conversing with the dispenser of liquid lightning. Two very calm-looking Ten Milers were within easy reach of Mr. Borlan; two more at the door, which was left temptingly open; two more at each window, and the remainder scattered about the room to suit themselves. Mr.
Borlan. The Ten Milers some of them followed both counsel and client. It was neck and heels until the horses were reached. After that the pursuers were left at a great disadvantage. "I'll have his heart!" ejaculated Watson. Which heart he meant we have no means of knowing. "Give me a horse! quick!" They brought a mule. "Wait here, every man of you!"
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