"Oh, I suppose so. Nothing else to do."
"Well, if you should happen for to play pitch," he advised, "don't bid more'n your hand's worth. Remember your weakness. Adios."
Two months later we two again rode together up Hope Cañon. Bob Ferrier was behind us and was soberly elated, for that afternoon Johnson had loaned him three hundred dollars and I had gone security. He would wed Mary Lou on the morrow.
The sun was setting behind The Hatter as we neared the house. It was a blissful twilight, and Lafe sang in gladness of heart.
But he chanced one day to run agin
A bullet made o' lead,
Which was harder than he bargained for,
And now poor Bill is dead;
And when they brung his body home
A barrel of tears was shed.
He ended with a halloo as we topped the last rise. There was no response or sign from the house. A puzzled look came over his face and he was down before his horse came to a stop. He sprang through the door.
"Hetty!" he shouted. "Hetty!" Then in a voice hoarse from fear: "She ain't here. She ain't here. Hetty, where are you?"
He was rushing frantically from one room to another. Ferrier was more methodical. He found a piece of paper under a cup on the kitchen table, which he read and handed to his brother-in-law.
I can't stand it any longer. I am going away. You'll soon get over it. Be sure to feed the dog. Good-by.
Johnson held the penciled lines at arm's length, while I waited for him to say something. It is my belief that he did not distinguish the words after the first perusal. Then he began to laugh.