Never before had Ben from mental excitement passed a sleepless night; his seasoned, iron nerves had borne him through a multitude of perils—from hostile Indians, from white enemies; from the bear, the wolf, the snake; from fire and flood; and when the time had come for him to sleep, he slept soundly; when his rough meals were prepared, he ate well. But it was different now. The recollection of the face which confronted his own at the restaurant, haunted him, broke his sleep into fitful dozing, and filled these unrefreshing snatches with terrible dreams. Yet, when the bright morning came, he persuaded himself that he must have been mistaken—that he had exaggerated some chance resemblance into the identity of his dead partner.
Ben’s reflections touched upon what was growing into another dreadful form of mental excitement. He began to fear that he had not seen the man at all, that it was merely a delusion, a vision of the brain. And that such a delusion should take the form of Rube Steele was not surprising, bearing in mind the fact, which was never long absent from his thoughts, that he had given this man a blow which, if it had not, as he formerly supposed, caused the man’s death, must have very nearly done so. No doubt the blow was struck in self-defence; but even murder in self-defence is not a thing which a man can in his calmer moments recall without some sense of remorse.
He was early at the hotel, and taking his regular seat, waited with a nervous anxiety, such as he had rarely experienced before, the appearance of the stranger. He had not long to wait. Almost as soon as he was seated, a figure entered the saloon which there was no mistaking, and all Ben’s consolatory theories as to a casual resemblance deceiving him, fled on the instant. The stoop of the long body and neck, the crafty glance the man threw around on entering, his very step—these were all Rube Steele’s; and to the dismay of Ben, the new-comer evidently glanced round the saloon in search of him, for the moment he saw him, his face lighted up with a smile, and he came to the table.
‘Glad to see you again!’ said he, extending a hand which a horrible fascination compelled Ben to seize and shake; but the familiarity of the touch was more horrible still. He felt—he knew for a certainty, he had touched that hand a thousand times.
‘I thought mebbe you made this your regular dining location,’ continued the other; ‘and I have kinder taken a fancy to you.’
‘In-deed!’ gasped Ben, wondering as to what would come next.
‘Yes, I have; that is so,’ replied the stranger. ‘I reckon you have not been located in this city very long?’
‘Not very long,’ said Ben, who had not once removed his eyes from the other’s face. ‘I came from the West—from the mining country.’
‘Possible!’ ejaculated the stranger. ‘Wal, now, I take a great interest in the mining countries, and like to hear tell of them. Were you from Californy, or Nevady, or’——
‘From Colorado,’ gasped Ben, who almost began to fancy that he was losing his senses, so certain was he that the man was Rube, and yet so inconsistent with this belief was the whole of his conversation, especially his liking for Ben, and his anxiety to hear of the mines.