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Updated: June 24, 2025
The sheriff hastened into the house just as Rose, pale and agitated, rose from a crouching posture at the window. "Was the policeman killed?" This was her question, given in an agitated voice. "Not killed, but he may die." "Just Heaven, why did he do it?" The country officer regarded the beautiful speaker keenly. "So it was you who met this man, this outlaw, outside, Miss Alstine?"
He had seen or heard nothing of Rose during this time. The unaccountable absence of the detective troubled the young man not a little as well, and he resolved to make an investigation immediately. "Is Miss Alstine at home?" The servant answered in the affirmative, and showed the young gentleman to the elegant parlor.
His bold return had evidently been to see his betrothed, and it was surmised by many that Rose Alstine could tell, if she would, the exact whereabouts of the murderer. Ransom Vane went to see her on the subject, but gained no satisfaction. Rose solemnly assured him that she had no more knowledge of her lover's whereabouts than he.
"Wal, I swar, that are's cool." Nevertheless the tramp departed. At the bar he swallowed a huge glass of brandy, and then passed upon the street. From this it will be seen that Billy Bowlegs was in league with the notorious scoundrel who is known to the reader as Andrew Barkswell. This, it will be remembered, was on the same night that the robbery was committed at the Alstine mansion.
Detective Keen smiled at the simplicity of the old lady. "Rose Alstine. They've been keepin' company a long time." "The young lady is wealthy?" "How do you know? Have you seen 'em?" "No, but I've heard of the Alstines," returned Keene. "Well, I suppose Rose is quite an heiress, especially if the old man's mine turns out well, he's been buying out in Colorado. He's out there now looking after it."
Van Alstine as a wife and a mother, so wrought upon her as to induce her to propose to her husband to organize an expedition, and attempt to recover their property from the Indian forts eighteen or twenty miles distant, where it had been carried. But the plan seemed scarcely feasible at the time, and was therefore abandoned.
Rose Alstine was not a strong-minded female, yet she possessed a will of her own, and once she set her mind on an object she was destined to obtain it or make a desperate effort at least. A sudden resolve entered her mind to visit the home of August Bordine and consult with him on the mysterious burglary. No sooner thought of than the impetuous girl proceeded to carry it into effect.
The Indians came soon after daylight in full war-costume armed with rifles and tomahawks. Mrs. Van Alstine begged her husband not to show himself but to leave the matter in her hands. The Indians took their course to the stables when they were met by the daring woman alone and asked what they wanted. "Our horses," replied the marauder. "They are ours," she said boldly, "and we mean to keep them."
Once more the peddler shook the hand of Mr. Barkswell, and then shuffled away. As he passed through the gate a bit of paper fluttered to the ground from one of the peddler's pockets. After the queer fellow's departure Barkswell secured the paper and could scarcely repress an exclamation as he read the lines it contained. A young man ran up the steps at the Alstine mansion and rang the bell.
"Have I answered it correctly?" "Possibly." He plucked at his mustache and looked into vacancy. He was deeply angered, both with himself and with the woman before him. It was an unfortunate thing to have Rose Alstine come upon them as she did. At that moment the schemer felt like strangling this woman, whose love for him, through good and evil report, passed understanding.
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