LITMIR.BIZ

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at him in that horrible way. But he tried to avoid the eyes, and thrust his hand into the inner pocket, drawing out an ordinary notebook, some scraps of newspaper folded up in it, and two letters addressed to Joe Hammond; one to Little Dalles, and the other had evidently been delivered by a messenger, for no destination was marked on it. It was an old letter and the envelope was worn through all around the edges. Another paper was wrapped around it, and the writing was of a light feminine character. Overton touched it with a certain reverence and looked embarrassed.

      "I think, Mrs. Huzzard, I will ask you to read this, as it seems a lady's letter, and if there is any information in it, you can give it to us; if not, I'll just put it back in his pocket and hope luck will tell us what the letter doesn't."

      But Mrs. Huzzard demurred: "And me that short-sighted that even specs won't cure it! No, indeed. I'm no one to read important papers. But here's 'Tana, with eyes like a hawk for sighting things. She'll read it fast enough."

      Overton looked undecided, remembering those strange insinuations of the now helpless man, and feeling that the man himself might not be willing.

      "I--well--I guess not," he said, at last. "It ain't just square to send a little girl blindfold like that into a stranger's claim. We'll let some one over twenty-one read the letters. You'll do, Max, and if it ain't all right, you can stop up short."

      So Lyster read the treasured message, all in the same feminine writing. His sensitive face grew grave, and he turned compassionate glances toward the helpless man as he read the letters, according to their dates. The oldest one was the only one not sad. Its postmark was a little town many miles to the south.

      "DEAR OLD JOE: It's awful to be this near you, and know you are sick, without being able to get to you. I just arrived, and your partner has met me, and told me all about it. But I'll go up with him, just the same; and when you are able to travel we can come down to a town and be married, instead of to-day, as we had set on. So that's all right, and don't you worry. Your partner, John Ingalls, is as nice as he can be to me. Why did you not tell me how good looking he was? Maybe you never discovered it--you slow, prosy old Joe! When you wrote to me of that rich find you stumbled on, I was sorry you had picked up a partner; for you always did trust folks too much, and I was afraid you'd be cheated by the stranger you picked up. But I guess that I was wrong, Joe; for he is a very nice gentleman--the nicest I ever met, I think. And he talks about you just as if he was your brother, and thought a heap of you. He tried to tease me some, too--asked how you ever came to catch such a pretty girl as me! Then I told him, Joe, that you never had to catch me--that I was little, and hadn't any folks, and how you got your folks to give me a home when you was only a boy; and that you was always like a big brother to me till you made some money in the mines. Then you wrote and asked me to come out and marry you. He just laughed, Joe, and said it was not a brother's love that a wife wanted; but I don't think he knows anything about that--do you? And, Joe, I came pretty near telling him all about that richest find you made--the one you said you wanted me to be the first to see. I thought, of course, you had told your partner, just as you told me when you sent me the plan of it--what for, I don't know, Joe, for I never could find it in the wide world, even if there was any chance of my hunting for it alone. Your partner asked me point blank if you had written to me of any late find of yours, or of any special location where you found good signs. I tried to look innocent, and said maybe you had, but I couldn't remember. I didn't like to tell a story. I wanted to tell him all the truth, and how rich you said we would be. I knew you would want to tell him yourself, so I managed to keep quiet in time. But whenever he looks at me I feel guilty. And he looks at me so kindly, and he is so good. He says we can't begin our journey to you right away, because he has provisions and things to get first; but we will set out in three days. So I send this letter that you will know I am on the road; maybe we'll reach you first. He is going to take me riding around this camp this evening--I mean Mr. Ingalls. He says I must get some enjoyment before I go up there to the mountains, where no one lives. He is the nicest stranger I ever met. But, of course, I never was away from home much to meet folks; I guess, though, I might travel a long ways and not meet any one so nice. He just brought me a pretty purse made by the Indians. I hope you wear a big hat like he does, and big, high boots. I never saw folks wear them back home; but they do look nice. Now, good-by, Joe, for a few days.

      "Yours affectionately, "FANNIE."

      "Well, that letter is plain sailing," remarked Overton, "but there is only one name in it we could follow up--the partner, John Ingalls. But I don't think I've heard of him."

      "Wait! there is another letter--two more," said Lyster; and the others were silent as he read:

      "JOE: I hope you'll hate me now. I can stand that better than to know you still like me. I can't help it. I am going with him--your partner. He loves me, too, Joe--not in the brotherly way you did, but in a way that makes me think of him and no one else. So I can't marry any one but him. Maybe it's a sin to be false to you, Joe; but I never could go to you now. And I can't help going where he wants me to go. Don't be mad at him; he can't help it either, I suppose. He says he will always be good to me, and I am going. But my heart is heavy as I write to you. I am not happy--maybe because I love him too much. But I am going. Try and forget me.

      "FANNIE."

      In dead silence Lyster unfolded the third paper. The drama of this stranger's life was a pathetic thing to the listeners, who looked at him with pity in their eyes, but could utter no words of sympathy to the man who sat there helpless and looked at them. Then the last, a penciled sheet, was read.

      "JOE: I am dying, I think. The Indian woman with me says so; and I hope it is true. He came to me to-day--the first time in weeks. He never married me, as he promised. He cursed me to-day because my baby face led him away from a fortune he knows you found. I never told him, though it is a wonder. All he knows of it he heard you say in your sleep when you were sick that time. To-day he told me you were paralyzed, Joe--that you are helpless still--that he has taken Indians with him there to your old claim, and searched every foot of ground for the gold vein he thinks you know of. But it is of no use, and he is furious over it, and so taunts me of your helplessness alone in the wilderness.

      "Joe, I still have the plan you made of the river and the two little streams and the marked tree. Can't I make amends some way for the wrong I did you? Is there anywhere a friend you could trust to work the find and take care of you? For if you are too helpless to write yourself, and can get only the name of the person to me, I will send the plan some way to him. I know I am not to live long. I am in a perfect fever to hear from you, and tell you that my sin against you weighs me down to despair.

      "I can't tell you of my life with him; it is too horrible. I do not even know who he is, for Ingalls is not his name. We are with Indians and they call him 'Medicine,' and seem to know him well. He has left me here, to-day, and I feel I will never see him again. He tells me he has sent for a young white boy who is to be brought to camp, and who will help care for me. Anything would be better than the sly red faces about me; they fill me with terror. My one hope is that the boy may get this letter sent to you, and that some word may come to me from you before my life ends. It has taken me all this day to write to you.

      "Good-by. I am dying miserably, and I deserve it. I can't even tell you where to write me; only we are with Indians camped by a big river. Not far away is a wall of rock, like a hill, beside the river, and Indian writing is cut on the wall, and holes and things are cut all along it."

      "The Arrow lakes of the Columbia!" interrupted Overton--

      "If the boy comes, and is to be trusted at all, he may tell me more; that is my only hope of this reaching you. If you are not able to make another plan (and he says your hands are powerless) remember, I have the one you did make. If you can send me one word--one name of a friend--I will try--try so hard. He would kill me if he knew, and I would be glad of it, if I could only help you first. I feel that I will never see you again.

      "FANNIE."

      Mrs. Huzzard was crying and whispering, "Poor dear!--poor child!" and even the voice of Lyster was not quite steady as he read. Those straggling, weak pencil marks had a pathos of their own to him. The letter, crossed and recrossed by the lines, was on two pages, evidently torn from the back of a book.

      "It

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