“What’s the matter?  What’s the matter?” Mr. Ellsworth called out to one man after another as they passed; but none of them answered him.  Coherent speech seemed to have deserted all.  “Here, you, Curly!” he shouted.  “What’s all this about?”

Curly, after a swift dash up the street, was now spurring back madly, his hat swinging in the air, himself crazed as the others.

“He’s in!” he yelled.  “We done it!”

“Who’s in?  What’ve you done?”

“Dan Anderson—­nomernated him for Congress—­day ’fore yestidday, over to Cruces.  Whole convention went solid—­Cruces and Dona Ana, Blanco—­whole kit and b’ilin’ of ’em.  Ben Stillson done it—­boys just heard—­heard the news!” After which Curly relapsed into a series of yells which closed the incident.

Constance listened, open-eyed and silent.  So then, he had succeeded!  The joy in his success, the pride in his victory, brought a flush to her cheek; but in the same moment the light faded from her eye.  She caught her father by the shoulder almost fiercely.  “Look at them!” she exclaimed.  “They’re proud of their victory, but they do not think of him.  See!  He is not here.”

Her father, sniffing politics, was forgetting all else; but sobered at this speech, he now motioned the driver to move on.  McKinney was there, Doc Tomlinson, Uncle Jim Brothers—­the man from Leavenworth—­many whom they knew, but not Dan Anderson.

As they turned from the street to cross the arroyo, they saw following at a respectful distance both Curly and Tom Osby, the latter walking at Curly’s saddle-skirt, for reasons not visible at a distance.  Tom Osby was still continuing his protestations.  “You go on over, Curly,” said he.  “You’ve done mighty well; now go on and finish up.  I ain’t in on the messenger part.”

“Maybe not,” replied Curly, “but both halfs of this here amanyensis is goin’ over there together.  I told that girl that Dan Anderson was shot to a finish and just about to cash in.  Now here’s all this hoorah about his bein’ put up for Congress!  I dunno what she’ll find when she gets into that house, but whichever way it goes, she’s due to think I’m a damned liar.  You come along, or I’ll take you over on a rope.”

The two conspirators crossed the arroyo and paused at the path which led up to Dan Anderson’s little cabin.  They saw Mr. Ellsworth and Constance leave the buckboard and stop uncertainly at the door.  They saw him knock and step half within, then withdraw and gently push his daughter ahead of him.  Then he stood outside, his hat in hand, violently mopping his brow.  As he caught sight of the two laggards he beckoned them peremptorily.

“O Lord!” moaned Tom Osby; “now here’s what that sheepherder done to us, with his missive and his signet ring.”

Constance Ellsworth had grown deadly pale as she approached the dwelling.  The open door let in upon a darkened interior.  There was no light, no ray of hope to comfort her.  There, as it seemed to her, in that tomblike abode, lay the end of all her happiness.  In her heart was only the prayer that she might find him able, still to recognize her.