He was shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed over the broad sun-baked expanse of broken “flat” between them and the highroad. They all looked up, and saw the figure of a mounted man, with a courier's bag thrown over his shoulder, galloping towards them. It was really an event, as their letters were usually left at the grocery at the crossroads.
“I knew something was goin' to happen,” said Wyngate. “I didn't feel a bit like work this morning.”
Here one of their number ran off to meet the advancing horseman. They watched him until they saw the latter rein up, and hand a brown envelope to their messenger, who ran breathlessly back with it to the Ledge as the horseman galloped away again.
“A telegraph for Jackson Wells,” he said, handing it to the young man who had been reading the scrap of paper.
There was a dead silence. Telegrams were expensive rarities in those days, especially with the youthful Bohemian miners of the Zip Coon Ledge. They were burning with curiosity, yet a singular thing happened. Accustomed as they had been to a life of brotherly familiarity and unceremoniousness, this portentous message from the outside world of civilization recalled their old formal politeness. They looked steadily away from the receiver of the telegram, and he on his part stammered an apologetic “Excuse me, boys,” as he broke the envelope.
There was another pause, which seemed to be interminable to the waiting partners. Then the voice of Wells, in quite natural tones, said, “By gum! that's funny! Read that, Dexter,—read it out loud.”
Dexter Rice, the foreman, took the proffered telegram from Wells's hand, and read as follows:—
Your uncle, Quincy Wells, died yesterday, leaving you sole heir. Will attend you to-morrow for instructions.
BAKER AND TWIGGS,
Attorneys, Sacramento.