like--he! he!--well!--how about that ar whiskey?"

Jeff's voice (coolly): "I'll bring it."

Steps, silence, coughing, spitting, and throat-clearing from the
stranger.

Steps again, and the click of glass.

The Stranger's voice (submissively): "In course I must go back to the
Forks and fetch up my duds. Ye know what I mean! Thar now--don't, Mr.
Jeff!"

Jeff's voice (sternly): "If I find you go back on me--"

The Stranger's voice (hurriedly): "Thar's my hand on it. Ye can count on
Jim Dodd."

Steps again. Silence. A bird lights on the window ledge, and peers into
the room. All is at rest.

Jeff and the deputy-sheriff walked through the bar-room and out on the
porch. Miss Mayfield in an arm-chair looked up from her book.

"I've written a letter to my father that I'd like to have mailed at
the Forks this afternoon," she said, looking from Jeff to the stranger;
"perhaps this gentleman will oblige me by taking it, if he's going that
way."

"I'll take it, miss," said Jeff hurriedly.