It was after sundown and getting duskish, while they was talking; and she said she must be getting along. The old gent said he’d go with her; but she said he mustn’t think of it, as it was only a step to the parsonage and she knew the way. While he was keeping on telling her she really must let him see her safe with her relatives, up come Santa Fé Charley––and Charley sung out: “Hello, old girl. So you’ve got here! 31 I was looking for you on the coach, and I thought you hadn’t come.”
Hill said he begun to shake all over with laughing; being sure––for all Charley in his black clothes and white tie looked so toney––it would be a dead give away for her. But he said she only give a little jump when Santa Fé sung out to her, and didn’t turn a hair.
“Dear Uncle Charley, I am so glad to see you!” she said easy and pleasant; and then round she come to the old gent, and said as smooth as butter to him: “This is my uncle, the Baptist minister, sir, come to take me to the parsonage to my dear aunt. It’s almost funny to have so young an uncle! Aunt’s young too––you see, grandfather married a second time. We’re more like sister and brother––being so near of an age; and he always will talk to me free and easy, like he always did––though I tell him now he’s a minister it don’t sound well.” And then she whipped round to Charley, so quick he hadn’t time to get a word in edgeways, and said to him: “I hope Aunt Jane’s well, and didn’t 32 have to go up to Denver––as she said she might in her last letter––to look after Cousin Mary. And I do hope you’ve finished the painting she said was going on at the parsonage––so you can take me in there till my transportation comes and I can start East. This kind gentleman, who’s going up on to-night’s train, has been offering––and it’s just as good of him, even if I can’t go––to escort me home to my dear baby; and he’s been giving me in the sweetest way his sympathy over my dear husband Captain Chiswick’s loss.”
Hill said he never knowed anybody take cards as quick as Santa Fé took the cards the Hen was giving him. “I’m very happy to meet you, sir,” he said to the old gent; “and most grateful to you for your kindness to my poor niece Rachel in her distress. We have been sorrowing over her during Captain Chiswick’s long and painful illness––”
“My dear Captain had been sick for three months, and got up out of his bed to go and be killed with his men by those dreadful Apaches,” the Hen cut in.
“––and when the news came of the massacre,” Charley went right on, as cool as an iced drink, “our hearts almost broke for her. Captain Chiswick was a splendid gentleman, sir; one of the finest officers ever sent out to this Territory. His loss is a bad thing for the service; but it is a worse thing for my poor niece––left forsaken along with her sweet babes. They are noble children, sir; worthy of their noble sire!”
“Oh, Uncle Charley!” said the Hen. “Didn’t you get my letter telling you my little Jane died of croup? I’ve only my little Willy, now!” And she kind of gagged.
“My poor child. My poor child!” said Santa Fé. “I did not know that death had winged a double dart at you like that––your letter never came.” And then he said to the old gent: “The mail service in this Territory, sir, is a disgrace to the country. The Government ought to be ashamed!”
Hill said while they was giving it and taking it that way he most choked––particular as the old gent just gulped it all down whole.