“She won’t know it’s for the last time—we’ll be there,” had come warningly from the Sheriff as he pointed to the door that led to the bar-room.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
“Why, what have you got the door barred for?” asked the Girl as she came into the room; and then without waiting for an answer: “Why, where are the boys?”
“Well, you see, the boys—the boys has—has—” began Nick confusedly and stopped.
“The boys—” There was a question in the Girl’s voice.
“Has gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Why, to the Palmetter,” came out feebly from Nick; and then with a sudden change of manner, he added: “Oh, say, Girl, I likes you!” And here he laid his hand affectionately upon her shoulder. “You’ve been my religion—the bar an’ you. Why, you don’t never want to leave us—why, I’d drop dead for you.”
“Nick, you’re very nice to—” began the Girl, gratefully, and stopped, for at that instant a gentle tap came upon the door. Turning swiftly, she saw Johnson coming towards her.
“Girl!” he cried in an agony of joy, and held out his arms to receive her.