The boys drank with the colonel, but they were too severely astonished to enjoy the liquor particularly.  In fact, old Bermuda, who had never taken anything but plain rye, drank three fingers of claret that day, and did not know of it until told.

The colonel’s mind was unusually excited.  It seemed to him there were a number of probabilities upon which to hang bets.  He walked outside, that his meditation might be undisturbed, but in an instant he was back, crying: 

“Lady comin’!”

Shirt-sleeves and trowsers-legs were hurriedly rolled down, shirt-collars were buttoned, hats were dusted, and then each man went leisurely out, with the air of having merely happened to leave the saloon—­an air which imposed upon no disinterested observer.

Coming up the trail beside the creek were a middle-aged gentleman and a young lady, both on horseback.

The gentleman’s dress and general style plainly indicated that he was not a miner, nor a storekeeper, nor a barkeeper; while it was equally evident that the lady was neither a washerwoman, a cook, nor a member of either of the very few professions which were open to ladies on the Pacific Coast in those days.

This much every miner quickly decided for himself; but after so deciding, each miner reached the uttermost extremity of his wits, and devoted himself to staring.

The couple reined up before the saloon, and the gentleman drew something small and black and square from his pocket.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “we are looking for an old friend of ours, and have traced him to this camp.  We scarcely know whether it would be any use to give his name, but here is his picture.  Can any one remember having seen the person here?”

Every one looked toward Colonel Two, he being the man with the most practical tongue in camp.

The colonel took the picture, and Weasel slipped up behind him and looked over his shoulder.  The colonel looked at the picture, abruptly handed it back, looked at the young lady, and then gazed vacantly into space, and seemed very uncomfortable.

“Been here, but gone,” said the colonel, at length.

“Where did he go, do you know?” asked the gentleman, while the lady’s eyes dropped wearily.

“Nobody knows—­only been gone a day or two,” replied the colonel.

The colonel had a well-developed heart, and, relying on what he considered the correct idea of Jim Hockson’s mission, ventured to say: 

“He’ll be back in a day or two—­left all his things.”

Suddenly Weasel raised his diminutive voice, and said: 

“The detec—­”

The determined grip of the colonel’s hand interrupted the communication which Weasel attempted to make, and the colonel hastily remarked: 

“Ther’s a feller gone for him that’s sure to fetch him back.”

“Who—­who is it?” asked the young lady, hesitatingly.

“Well, ma’am,” said the colonel, “as yer father—­I s’pose, leastways—­said, ’tain’t much use to give names in this part of the world, but the name he’s goin’ by is Jim Hockson.”