You won’t be interested in that. But I want Marion taken care of. She was fifteen when I saw her last. She looked just like me; thank God for that! She won’t have any of the characteristics of the others!
Squint, I want you to take care of her. You’ll find her in Westwood, Illinois. You and me have talked of selling the mine. Sell it; take my share and for it give Marion a half-interest in your ranch, the Arrow. If there is any left, put it in land in Dawes—that town is going to boom. Guard it for her, and marry her, Squint; she’ll make you a good wife. Tell her I want her to marry you; she’ll do it, for she always liked her “dad.”
There was more, but Taylor read no further. He stuffed the envelope into a pocket and sat looking out of the window, regarding morosely the featureless landscape. After a time he grinned saturninely:
“Looks to me like a long chance, Larry,” he mused. “Considered as a marrying proposition she don’t seem to be enthusiastic over me. Now what in thunder is she doing out here, and why is that man Carrington with her—and where did she pick him up?”
There came no answer to these questions.
Reluctant, after the girl’s mocking smile, to seem to intrude, Taylor sat in the smoking-compartment during the long afternoon, until the dusk began to descend—until through the curtains of the compartment he caught a glimpse of the girl and her companions returning from the dining-car. Then, after what he considered a decent interval, he emerged from the compartment, went to the diner, ate heartily, and returned to the smoking-room.
He had met Larry Harlan about three years before. Harlan had appeared at the Arrow one morning, looking for a job. Taylor had hired him, not because he needed men, but because he thought Harlan needed work. A friendship had developed, and when one day Harlan had told Taylor about a mine he had discovered in the Sangre de Christo Mountains, some miles southwestward, offering Taylor a half-interest if the latter would help him get at the gold, Taylor had agreed.
They had found the mine, worked it, and had taken considerable gold out of it, when one day a huge rock had fallen on Harlan. Taylor had done what he could, rigging up a drag with which to take Harlan to town and a doctor, but Harlan had died before town could be reached.
That had been the extent of Taylor’s friendship for the man. But he had followed Harlan’s directions.
Sitting in the smoking-compartment, he again drew out Harlan’s note to him and read further: