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Updated: June 10, 2025
It was Jake's custom to write poems at Miss Woppit poems breathing the most fervid sentiment, all about love and bleeding hearts and unrequited affection. The papers containing these effusions he would gather together with rare diligence, and would send them, marked duly with a blue or a red pencil, to Miss Woppit.
That honest voice oh, could I hear it now! That honest face oh, could I see it again! And, oh, that once more I could feel the clasp of that brave hand and the cordial grace of that dear, noble presence! It was in the fall of the year; the nights were long, yet this night sped quickly. Long before daybreak significant sounds in the back room betokened that Miss Woppit was up and moving around.
Through the closed door and from behind the improvised rampart of wood-box and small trunk the young lady informed her chivalric protectors that they might go home, prefacing this permission, however, with a solicitous inquiry as to whether anything had been heard from Brother Jim and his posse. Jim Woppit and his men must have had a hard ride of it.
The campaign was fervent but good-natured. I shall venture to say that Jim Woppit would never have been elected city marshal but for the potent circumstance that several of the most influential gentlemen in the camp were in love with Jim's sister; that was Jim's hold on these influences, and that was why he was elected.
Mills, the superintendent of the Royal Victoria, had many a secret conference with Jim Woppit, and it finally leaked out that the cold, discriminating, and vigilant eye of eternal justice was riveted upon Steve Barclay, the stage-driver.
Yet the stage robbers bless you! nobody could find hide or hair of 'em. Miss Woppit stood her share of the excitement and alarm as long as she could, and then she spoke her mind to Jim. He told us about it. Miss Woppit owed a certain duty to Jim, she said; was it not enough for her to be worried almost to death with fears for his safety as marshal of the camp?
This front room had in it a round table, a half-dozen chairs, a small sheet-iron stove, and a rude kind of settee that served Jim Woppit for a bed by night. There were some pictures hung about on the walls neither better nor poorer than the pictures invariably found in the homes of miners.
The outlaw inquired which of his victims was Sir Charles Lackington, and evinced rage when he learned that that gentleman was not among the passengers by coach. It happened that Jake Dodsley was one of the victims of the highwayman's greed. He had been to Denver and was bringing home a pair of elaborate gold earrings which he intended for for Miss Woppit, of course.
These three men last named were influences in the camp, enterprising and respected citizens, with plenty of sand in their craws and plenty of stuff in their pockets; they loved Miss Woppit, and they were in honor bound to stand by the interests of the brother of that fascinating young woman.
Convinced finally that there was no longer cause for alarm, Barber Sam strode boldly up to the body, bent over it, tore off the hat and pulled aside the muslin half-mask. One swift glance at the outlaw's face, and Barber Sam recoiled. "Great God!" he cried, "Miss Woppit!" It was, indeed, Miss Woppit the fair-haired, shy-eyed boy who for months had masqueraded in the camp as a woman.
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