Steps, silence, coughing, spitting, and throat-clearing from the stranger.
Steps again, and the click of glass.
The Stranger's voice (submissively): “In course I must go back to the Forks and fetch up my duds. Ye know what I mean! Thar now—don't, Mr. Jeff!”
Jeff's voice (sternly): “If I find you go back on me—”
The Stranger's voice (hurriedly): “Thar's my hand on it. Ye can count on Jim Dodd.”
Steps again. Silence. A bird lights on the window ledge, and peers into the room. All is at rest.
Jeff and the deputy-sheriff walked through the bar-room and out on the porch. Miss Mayfield in an arm-chair looked up from her book.
“I've written a letter to my father that I'd like to have mailed at the Forks this afternoon,” she said, looking from Jeff to the stranger; “perhaps this gentleman will oblige me by taking it, if he's going that way.”
“I'll take it, miss,” said Jeff hurriedly.
“No,” said Miss Mayfield archly, “I've taken up too much of your time already.”