“Where does he live—in some secret haunt in the forest, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, he doesn't confine himself to one place. He travels a good deal. Sometimes he goes to St. Louis. I have heard that he sometimes even visits New York.”
“And is he not recognized?”
“No; he looks like anything but an outlaw. If you should see him you might think him a prosperous merchant, or banker.”
“That's curious!” said Herbert.
“The fact is,” said the colonel, “when you travel by stage-coaches in these solitudes you have to take the chances. Now I carry my money concealed in an inner pocket, where it isn't very likely to be found. Of course I have another wallet, just for show, and I give that up when I have to.”
There was a stout, florid gentleman present, who listened to the above conversation with ill-disguised nervousness. He was a New York capitalist, of German birth, going out to inspect a mine in which he proposed purchasing an interest. His name was Conrad Stiefel.
“Good gracious!” said he, “I had no idea a man ran such a risk, or I would have stayed at home. I decidedly object to being robbed.”
“Men are robbed in a different way in New York,” said George Melville.
“How do you mean, Mr. Melville?”