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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Hey, you stop!" commanded the gunman as Rimrock gained the barricade, and he struck him back with the muzzle of his gun. Rimrock staggered and caught himself and then held on weakly as his breath came in quivering sobs. "That's all right," he gasped. "I've got no quarrel with you. I came to get Andrew McBain."
"Plain drunk," grunted L. W. contemptuously and stumped away up the street. It was easy enough to say Rimrock was drunk, but it was soon demonstrated that he was not crazy. He was standing in front of the Alamo Saloon, still holding forth against McBain, when a Mexican boy beckoned him off to one side and slipped a note into his hand. "Please come to my office at once.
Now will you go out to the claims and keep them from being jumped, or " "Leave it to me," he said, the fighting light in his eyes. "Where's McBain? He's the man I've got to stop." "No, now let's not have any violence. I know something of the law. All you need to do is to stay on the ground. If you're in possession " "That's got nothing to do with it!" he burst out impatiently.
Then she straightened up proudly and when McBain began to dictate her machine went on clacking defiantly. There followed long days in which Rimrock idled about town or rode back and forth to his mine, and then the gossips began to talk. A change, over night, had taken place in Rimrock the day after his return from New York.
"There are some heavenly sandwiches here," announced Nan. "That is, if Sandy has left any. Have you, Sandy?" Sandy McBain grinned responsively. He was the somewhat surprising offspring of the union between Nan's Early Victorian aunt, Eliza, and a prosaic and entirely uninteresting Scotsman.
The Frenchman bowed gracefully, and extended a card across the table. The other glanced at it carelessly. "Ah! De Croix; pleased to meet you. Think I heard some of our officers speak of seeing you a month ago at Detroit, McBain or Ramsey, I have forgotten which." "I recall a game of cards with a Lieutenant Ramsey, a rather choleric Scotchman, with a magnificent capacity for strong whiskey."
McBain had seen him and slipped away till he should get out of town. "The sneaking cur!" muttered Rimrock in a fury and a passing woman drew away and half-screamed. He ignored her, pondering darkly, and then to his ears there came a familiar voice. He listened, intently, and raised his head; then tiptoed along the wall.
At last he was to be given his final chance, and it was something to obtain such clemency in a force which existed simply by reason of its unfailing success. He had much to be thankful for. McBain would have fresh heart put into him. It would be something like a taste of hell for McBain to find himself reduced to the rank of trooper again, after all his years of successful service.
There's a deal o' fancy canned truck, an' say, the leddy's death on notions. Get a peek at the colors o' them silk duds. On'y keep dirty hands off'n 'em, or she'll cuss me to hell for a fust-class hog." McBain signed to the trooper at the rear of the wagon and the man stripped the cover off. The first thing the officer beheld was a sewing machine in its shining walnut case.
From a plain office drudge, Mary Fortune, the typist, suddenly found herself the second in command. Every day from Geronimo there came letters and telegrams from the prisoner in the County Jail and his trenchant orders were put into effect by the girl who had worked for McBain.
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