A heavily built man, older than those who had been keeping the post-office
lively, now took advantage of the lull to approach Judith. He had a
twinkling face, all circles and pouches, but it grew graver as he spoke to
the postmistress. He was Major Atkins, formerly a famous cavalry officer,
but since his retirement a cattle-man whose herds grazed to the pan-handle
of Texas. As he took his mail, talking meantime of politics, of the heat,
of the lack of water, in the loud voice for which he was famous, he
managed, with clumsy diplomacy, to interject a word or two for her own ear
alone.

"Jim’s out," he conveyed to her, in a successfully muffled tone. "He’s
out, and they’re after him, hot. Get him out of the State, Judy—get him
out, _quick_. He tried to kill Simpson at Mrs. Clark’s, in town,
yesterday. The little Eastern girl that’s here will tell you." Then the
major was gone before Judith could perfectly realize the significance of
what he had told her.

She threw back her head and the pulse in her throat beat. Like a wild
forest thing, at the first warning sound, she considered: Was it time for
flight?—or was the warning but the crackling of a twig? Major Atkins was a
cattle-man: her brother hated all cattle-men. How disinterested had been
the major’s warning! He had always been her friend. Mrs. Atkins had been
one of the ladies at the post who had helped to send her to school to the
nuns at Santa Fé. She despised herself for doubting; yet these were
troublous times, and all was fair between sheep and cattle-men. Major
Atkins had spoken of the Eastern girl; then that pretty, little,
curly-haired creature, whom Judith had found standing in the sunshine, had
seen Jim—had heard him threaten to kill. Should she ask her about
it—consult her? Judith’s training was not one to impel her to give her