“Howdy, Ban!”

“Hello, Pete.”

“How’s the lady gettin’ on?”

“Not too well.”

“Can’t see much of anythin’, huh?”

“No:  and never will again.”

“Sho!  Well, I don’t figger out as I’d want to live long in that fix.  How long does the doc give her, Ban?”

“Perhaps six months; perhaps a year.  She isn’t afraid to die; but she’s hanging to life just as long as she can.  She’s a game one, Pete.”

“And how long will you be with us, Ban?”

“Oh, I’m likely to be around quite a while yet.”

Dutch Pete, thoroughly understanding, reflected that here was another game one.  But he remarked only that he’d like to drop in on Miss K’miller next time he rode over, with a bit of sage honey that he’d saved out for her.

“She’ll be glad to see you,” returned the other.  “Only, don’t forget, Pete; not a word about anything except local stuff.”

“Sure!” agreed Pete with that unquestioning acceptance of another’s reasons for secrecy which marks the frontiersman.  “Say, Ban,” he added, “you ain’t much of an advertisement for Manzanita as a health resort, yourself.  Better have that doc stick his head in your mouth and look at your insides.”

Banneker raised tired eyes and smiled.  “Oh, I’m all right,” he replied listlessly.

“Come to next Saturday’s dance at the Coyote; that’ll put dynamite in your blood,” prescribed the other as he spurred his horse on.

Banneker had no need to turn the dun pony aside to the branch trail that curved to the door of his guest; the knowing animal took it by habitude, having traversed it daily for a long time.  It was six months since Banneker had bought him:  six months and a week since Willis Enderby had been buried.  And the pony’s rider had in his pocket a letter, of date only four days old, from Willis Enderby to Camilla Van Arsdale.  It was dated from the Governor’s Mansion, Albany, New York.  Banneker had written it himself, the night before.  He had also composed nearly a column of supposed Amalgamated Wire report, regarding the fight for and against Governor Enderby’s reform measures, which he would read presently to Miss Van Arsdale from the dailies just received.  As he dismounted, the clear music of her voice called: 

“Any mail, Ban?”

“Yes.  Letter from Albany.”

“Let me open it myself,” she cried jealously.

He delivered it into her hands:  this was part of the ritual.  She ran her fingers caressingly over it, as if to draw from it the hidden sweetness of her lover’s strength, which must still be only half-expressed, because the words were to be translated through another’s reading; then returned it to its real author.

“Read it slowly, Ban,” she commanded softly.