“I'll have the law on that fellow,” he growled, as he hung his stick on its accustomed nail behind the stove. “No rampageous dare-devil like that can stand right in my front-door and shoot for mere amusement at the county court-house. This isn't a fort yet, and the war is over, thank the Lord.”
Pole glanced at Floyd.
“Oh, he's jest a little hilarious this mornin', Mr. Mayhew,” he said. “He must 'a' met a mountain whiskey wagon on his way to town. Anyways, you needn't complain; he come in here jest now an' paid off his account in full.”
“What? paid off—Is that so, Nelson?”
Floyd nodded, and then bent more closely over the ledger. “Yes, he paid up to date.”
“Well, that's queer—or I am, one or the other; why, boys, I had that fellow on my dead-list. I didn't think he'd ever raise the money, and if he did I had no idea it would drift our way.”
Floyd left the desk and reached for his hat. Pole was watching him closely.
“Post-office?” he asked.
“Yes.” Pole joined him, and the two walked part of the way to the front-door and paused. Joe Peters was attending a man on the grocery side of the house, and a young woman, neatly dressed, with a pretty figure and graceful movement, stood waiting her turn.
“By gum!” Pole exclaimed under his breath, “that's my little neighbor, Cynthia Porter—the purtiest, neatest, an' best little trick that ever wore a bonnet. I needn't tell you that, though, you old scamp. You've already found it out. Go wait on 'er, Nelson. Don't keep 'er standin' thar.”