“Shoshone squaw, did you say she was, Henry? They ain’t much for looks, but there’s a heep of wear to ’em.”
“Oh, go on, now; you fellows know I ain’t married.” And the boy handled the package with a sort of dumb wonder, as if the superscription were indisputable evidence of a wife’s existence.
“Open it, Henry; you shore don’t harbor sentiments of curiosity regarding the post-office dealings of your lady.”
“Now, old man, this here may be grounds for divorce.”
“See what the other fellow’s sending your wife.”
Henry, badgered, jostled, the target of many a homely witticism, finally opened the package, which proved to be a sample bottle of baby food. At sight of it they howled like Apaches, and Henry was again forced to receive their congratulations. Judith, who had been an interested on-looker without joining in the merriment, now detected in the tenor of their humor a tendency towards breadth. In an instant her manner was official; rapping the table with her mailing-stamp, she announced:
“Boys, this post-office closes in ten minutes, if you want to buy any stamps.”
The silence following this statement on the part of the postmistress was instantaneous. Henry took his mirth-provoking package and went his way; some of the more hilariously inclined followed him. The remainder confined themselves absolutely to business, scrawling postal-cards or reading their mail. The pounce of the official stamp on the letters, as the postmistress checked them off for the mail-bag, was the only sound in the hot stillness.
A heavily built man, older than those who had been keeping the post-office lively, now took advantage of the lull to approach Judith. He had a twinkling face, all circles and pouches, but it grew graver as he spoke to the postmistress. He was Major Atkins, formerly a famous cavalry officer, but since his retirement a cattle-man whose herds grazed to the pan-handle of Texas. As he took his mail, talking meantime of politics, of the heat, of the lack of water, in the loud voice for which he was famous, he managed, with clumsy diplomacy, to interject a word or two for her own ear alone.
“Jim’s out,” he conveyed to her, in a successfully muffled tone. “He’s out, and they’re after him, hot. Get him out of the State, Judy—get him out, quick. He tried to kill Simpson at Mrs. Clark’s, in town, yesterday. The little Eastern girl that’s here will tell you.” Then the major was gone before Judith could perfectly realize the significance of what he had told her.