“I believe you are, Woodley—am sure of it. And, now that I think more of the matter, I’m not sorry at having met you. Rather am I glad of it; for I feel that I can depend upon you. Sime, will you go with me to Texas?”
“To Texas, or anywhars. In coorse I will. An’ I reck’n we’ll hev a good chance o’ meetin’ Dick Darke thar, an’ then—”
“Meet him!” exclaimed Clancy, without waiting for the backwoodsman to finish his speech, “I’m sure of meeting him. I know the spot where. Ah, Simeon Woodley! ’tis a wicked world! Murderer as that man is, or supposed to be, there’s a woman gone to Texas who will welcome him—receive him with open arms; lovingly entwine them around his neck. O God!”
“What woman air ye talkin’ o’, Clancy?”
“Her who has been the cause of all—Helen Armstrong.”
“Wal; ye speak the truth partwise—but only partwise. Thar’ can be no doubt o’ Miss Armstrong’s being the innercent cause of most o’ what’s been did. But as to her hevin’ a likin’ for Dick Darke, or puttin’ them soft white arms o’ hern willingly or lovingly aroun’ his neck, thar you’re clar off the trail—a million miles off o’ it. That ere gurl hates the very sight o’ the man, as Sime Woodley hev’ good reason to know. An’ I know, too, that she’s nuts on another man—leastwise has been afore all this happened, and I reck’n still continue to be. Weemen—that air, weemen o’ her kidney—ain’t so changeable as people supposes. ’Bout Miss Helen Armstrong hevin’ once been inclined to’ardst this other man, an’ ready to freeze to him, I hev’ the proof in my pocket.”
“The proof! What are you speaking of?”
“A dookyment, Charley Clancy, that shed hev reached you long ago, seein’ that it’s got your name on it. Thar’s both a letter and a pictur’. To examine ’em, we must have a clarer light than what’s unner this tree, or kin be got out o’ that ’ere moon. S’pose we adjern to my shanty. Thar we kin set the logs a-bleezin’. When they throw thar glint on the bit o’ paper I’ve spoke about, I’ll take long odds you won’t be so down in the mouth. Come along, Charley Clancy! Ye’ve had a durned dodrotted deal both o’ sufferin’ an’ sorrow. Be cheered! Sime Woodley’s got somethin’ thet’s likely to put ye straight upright on your pins. It’s only a bit o’ pasteboard an’ a sheet o’ paper—both inside what in Natcheez they calls a enwelope. Come wi’ me to the ole cabin, an’ thar you kin take a squint at ’em.”
Clancy’s heart is too full to make rejoinder. The words of Woodley have inspired him with new hope. Health, long doubtful, seems suddenly restored to him. The colour comes back to his cheeks; and, as he follows the hunter to his hut, his stride exhibits all its old vigour and elasticity.
When the burning logs are kicked into a blaze; when by its light he reads Helen Armstrong’s letter, and looks upon her photograph—on that sweet inscript intended for himself—he cries out in ecstasy,—