In the solitude of her own room, and without a confidant, she read these words:—
“[Copy.]
“To MR. ADAMS RIGHTBODY, BOSTON, MASS.
“Joshua Silsbie died suddenly this morning. His last request was
that you should remember your sacred compact with him of thirty
years ago.
(Signed) “SEVENTY-FOUR.
“SEVENTY-FIVE.”
In the darkened home, and amid the formal condolements of their friends who had called to gaze upon the scarcely cold features of their late associate, Mrs. Rightbody managed to send another despatch. It was addressed to “Seventy-Four and Seventy-Five,” Cottonwood. In a few hours she received the following enigmatical response:—
“A horse-thief named Josh Silsbie was lynched yesterday morning by the Vigilantes at Deadwood.”
PART II.
The spring of 1874 was retarded in the California sierras; so much so, that certain Eastern tourists who had early ventured into the Yo Semite Valley found themselves, one May morning, snow-bound against the tempestuous shoulders of El Capitan. So furious was the onset of the wind at the Upper Merced Canyon, that even so respectable a lady as Mrs. Rightbody was fain to cling to the neck of her guide to keep her seat in the saddle; while Miss Alice, scorning all masculine assistance, was hurled, a lovely chaos, against the snowy wall of the chasm. Mrs. Rightbody screamed; Miss Alice raged under her breath, but scrambled to her feet again in silence.
“I told you so!” said Mrs. Rightbody, in an indignant whisper, as her daughter again ranged beside her. “I warned you especially, Alice—that—that—”
“What?” interrupted Miss Alice curtly.
“That you would need your chemiloons and high boots,” said Mrs. Rightbody, in a regretful undertone, slightly increasing her distance from the guides.