Lone Pine: The Story of a Lost Mine

by R. B. Townshend

"What is it that has come to him?" she asked herself. "Here is a look in his eyes to-day that never was there before. Perhaps he has a secret to keep—or to tell; perhaps he has found that mine that he is always searching for." She blushed and looked down as she caught his glance flashed quickly upon her. Her heart told her that he had a secret to tell—but that it did not concern any mine of silver or gold. Again their eyes met, and again unwillingly they parted; it seemed dangerous to look longer, as if the meaning that they had for each other must betray itself to all around. And this was the man that she had been deeming cold and hard! "Hombre muy frio," as her aunt had called him. "Cold as the snows of his own frozen North," as her father had said—said it of him! Perhaps so, perhaps he had been cold, but if it were so, the ice had melted now.

Stephens lingered over his story longer than he had intended; questions flowed in upon him, and he had to answer them and fill in many things that he had omitted, for the storekeeper's strange and dreadful end was a matter that excited intense interest. He half hoped that by exciting their curiosity he might impel these people to go away and visit the house of the deceased in order to learn what more they could. Anything to make them move. But nothing seemed to have the desired effect. The more he told them the more they wanted to know. The chance to see the girl alone and tell her what was in his heart seemed to grow more remote than ever. He ached to speak to her, were it but a few words—a few words he told himself were all that were needful, so little did he know of love—and yet the opportunity was denied.

At last in despair he rose; he would go away himself for a little and then return. Perhaps meantime the visitors might disperse. "I have to take my leave now, ladies," he said, excusing himself. "It is already the hour for the mail to arrive from Santa Fé, and I am expecting letters of importance. I do not know how they will manage in view of the unhappy death of the postmaster, but I had better be there to see what is to be done about opening the mail-bag. By your permission, then, Don Nepomuceno," and he bowed himself out. The words he had come to say to her were still unsaid. The thought occurred to him as he moved away,—should he speak to the girl's father? To speak to the girl's father first would be quite the correct thing according to Mexican fashions; or, rather, if he wanted to do the thing in proper style, he should go and get a friend to take a message to her father for him. But no; he was not a Mexican, and why should he adopt their fashions in this? He was an American, and he would woo his wife in American style for himself.

Faro started to come with him, but was ordered back.

"Stay where you are, old man, till I come for you. I see you're not so tender-footed as you were, but you stay here." He felt a sort of prejudice against taking the dog to the house of mourning. He hated to go there at all, but he had to have his mail and there was no other way to get it. And he would see if he could find out anything about the fate of the letters he had entrusted to Backus.

He went out and saddled up Morgana, who put her pretty head round and pretended to bite him as he pulled on the latigo strap to draw the cinch.

"Easy, old lady, now; come, none of that"; as she nearly nipped him. "Pedro's been giving you too much of Don Nepomuceno's corn, I'm thinking, and it's got into your head." He slung his Winchester into its case under the off-stirrup leather, and swinging himself into the saddle departed on his errand.

The mail waggon had just drawn up as usual before the door of the post-office, now shut and locked, and the stage-driver was leading his team around the back of the house towards the stable as Stephens came in sight. Two passengers had dismounted from the waggon, and were stretching their tired limbs and looking disconsolately at the closed house with its shuttered window, which seemed to offer small promise of a meal.

Stephens loped forward with the idea of relieving their discomfiture. As he did so one of the figures seemed strangely familiar. "Was it—could it be possible? No. Yes. By George, it was!" With a shout of welcome he sprang off the mare, slipping her bridle over the saddle-horn, and reached out both hands to the newcomer.

"Rocky! well, by gum!"