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As no time was to be lost, Barclay suggested that somebody run down the road to Woppit's cabin and telephone to camp. Mr. Mills and the Chicago drummer undertook this errand.
Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away just a trifle up along the main road beyond the Woppit cabin. But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and fro behind the white curtain.
Around the mountain and over the Tin Cup path they galloped, a good seven miles, I 'll dare swear; and now at last they met up with the main road, and at Jim Woppit's command they drew in under the trees to await the approach of the party in the stage. Meanwhile in camp the comedy was drawing to a close.
Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, but no one spoke. If words were to be said, it was Jim Woppit's place to say them, and that dreadful silence seemed to cry: "Speak out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has come!" Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood erect before them all and plucked from his breast the star of his office and cast away from him the weapon he had worn.
Poor old Hoover's subtlety all for naught, Mary's friendly offices incompleted, the pleasant visits to the cabin among the hollyhocks suspended perhaps forever, Miss Woppit's lonely lot rendered still more lonely by the departure of her sweet girl friend all this was threatened by the proposed flight for flight it was of Sir Charles and Mary Lackington. That May morning was a glorious one.
There was the inevitable portrait of John C. Fremont and the inevitable print of the pathfinder planting his flag on the summit of Pike's Peak; a map of Colorado had been ingeniously invested with an old looking-glass frame, and there were several cheap chromos of flowers and fruit, presumably Miss Woppit's contributions to the art stores of the household.
It was understood nay, it was explicitly set forth, that they should have possession of the front room wherein they now stood, while Miss Woppit was to retire to her apartment beyond, which, according to popular fame and in very truth, served both as a kitchen and Miss Woppit's bedroom, there being only two rooms in the cabin.
In spite of her unacquaintance with the artifices of the world Miss Woppit exhibited the daintiest skill at turning the drift of the conversation whenever, by the most studied tact, Mary Lackington succeeded in bringing the conversation around to a point where the virtues of Three-fingered Hoover, as a candidate for Miss Woppit's esteem, could be expatiated upon.
We can fancy that the twain were distinctly annoyed upon discovering in one corner of the room, during their vigils, a number of Leadville and Denver newspapers containing sonnets, poems, odes, triolets, and such like, conspicuously marked with blue or red pencil tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, at Miss Woppit's virgin heart. This was the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley!
It was to convey to Miss Woppit's ear good tidings upon the wings of music. "Suppose we play 'All's Well'?" suggested Barber Sam. "That'll let her know that everything's O. K." "Just the thing!" answered Three-fingered Hoover, and then he added, and he meant it: "Durned if you ain't jest about as slick as they make 'em, pardner!"
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