"As Lafe was coming from dinner ... a Mexican handed him a letter."
Steve's sore. Look out for him.
Annie.
The sheriff had received so many warnings in his time that he had grown callous and seldom attached any significance to them, but he knew that Dutch Annie was not given to foolish alarm. So he tore her note into minute particles and saw to the oiling of his six-shooter. That was the only preparation against trouble that Johnson was wont to make.
The sheriff's two-roomed frame shack was somewhat removed from its neighbors. It was a full half mile from the Widow's house, where Hetty lodged. His housekeeping had a fine touch of simplicity. If all things were favorable, and he had nothing else to do, Lafe would make the bed once in a while. To do him justice, he had been known to sweep the place, also. That was not a particularly arduous task, because the furniture consisted of the bed aforesaid, one chair, one table with three legs, which stood propped against the wall, and a packing case for a washstand.
About seven o'clock that evening he led a spare horse to the Widow's house and took Hetty for a ride. They talked of the future—soberly, almost as a staid married couple. She never indulged in coquetry, and their courtship had not been of the kind to make jealousy of others expedient or a desirable weapon for her use. After she had dismounted at the gate:
"I wish you weren't going. I'm sort of nervous to-night."
The sheriff smiled down at her. "I reckon you'd best get a glass case to keep me in, hon."
"I know it's silly—but you'll be awful careful, won't you, Lafe?"
"Sure," he said. "There ain't a native in ten counties that likes getting hurt less'n I do."