against them, felt the strong youthful tide rush back to his heart, and
was himself again. Bill, meantime, took the lamp, examined the papers,
and read Miss Mayfield's note. A grim smile stole over his face. After
a pause, he said again, "Give Blue Grass her head, Jeff. D--n it, she
ain't Miss Mayfield!"

Jeff relaxed the muscles of his wrists, so as to throw the thumb and
forefingers a trifle forward. This simple action relieved Blue Grass,
alias Miss Mayfield, and made the coach steadier and less jerky.
Wonderful co-relation of forces.

"Thar!" said Yuba Bill, quietly putting the coach lamp back in its
place; "you're better already. Thar's nothing like six horses to draw a
woman out of a man. I've knowed a case where it took eight mustangs, but
it was a mulatter from New Orleans, and they are pizen! Ye might hit
up a little on the Pinto hoss--he ain't harmin' ye. So! Now, Jeff, take
your time, and take it easy, and what's all this yer about?"

To control six fiery mustangs, and at the same time give picturesque and
affecting exposition of the subtle struggles of Love and Pride, was a
performance beyond Jeff's powers. He had recourse to an angry staccato,
which somehow seemed to him as ineffective as his previous discourse
to Miss Mayfield; he was a little incoherent, and perhaps mixed his
impressions with his facts, but he nevertheless managed to convey to
Bill some general idea of the events of the past three days.

"And she sent ye off after that letter, that wasn't thar, while she
fixed things up with Dodd?"

"Yes," said Jeff furiously.