In the main the account was fairly accurate.  Gettysburg, Napoleon, and old Dave had over-talked, during certain liquifying processes.  The matter was out beyond repair.

Mrs. Dick was prompt in pouncing on the story, hence Beth was soon presented with a copy.  In the natural annoyance she felt when it was read, there was one consolation, at least:  Searle was away, to be gone perhaps two or three days.  He might not see the article, which would soon be forgotten in the camp.

To culminate the day’s events, that evening Elsa ran away.  She went with a “gentleman” lodger, taking the slight precaution to be married by the Justice of the Peace.

Beth discovered her loss too late to interfere.  She felt herself alone, indeed, with Bostwick away, her brother off in the desert, and Van—­she refused to think of Van.  Fortunately, Mrs. Dick was more than merely a friend.  She was a staunch little warrior, protecting the champion, to anger whom was unhealthy.  Despite the landlady’s attitude of friendliness, however, Beth felt wretchedly alone.  It was a terrible place.  She was cooped up all day within the lodging house, since the street full of men was more than she cared to encounter; and with life all about her, and wonderful days spreading one after another across the wide-open land, her liberties were fairly in a cage.

From time to time she thought of the horse, awaiting her order at the hay-yard.  She tried to convince herself she would never accept or ride the animal.  She was certain she resented everything Van had done.  She felt the warmest indignation at herself for breaking into bits of song, for glowing to the tips of her ears, for letting her heart leap wildly in her breast whenever she thought of the horseman.

Two days went by and she chafed under continued restraints.  No word had come from Bostwick, none from Glen—­and not a sign from the “Laughing Water” claim.  From the latter she said to herself she wished no sign.  But Searle had no right to leave her thus and neglect her in every respect.

The morning of the third long day Mrs. Dick brought her two thin letters.  One had been mailed in Goldite, by a messenger down from the “Laughing Water” claim.  It came from Van.  He had written the briefest of notes: 

“Just to send my love.  I want you to wear my nugget.”

Folded into the paper was a spray of the wild peach bloom.

Beth tried to think her blushes were those of indignation, which likewise caused the beat of her heart to rise.  But her hand fluttered prettily up to her breast, where the nugget was pinned inside her waist.  Also his letter must have been hard to understand—­she read it seventeen times.

Then she presently turned to the other.  It was addressed in typewritten characters, but the writing inside she knew—­her brother Glen’s.

“Dear Old Sis:  Say, what in the dickens are you doing out here in the mines, by all that’s holey?—­and what’s all this story in the Goldite News about one Bronson Van Buren doing the benevolent brigand stunt with you and your maid, and shunting Searle off with the Cons?  Why couldn’t you let a grubber know you were hiking out here to the desert?  Why all this elaborate surprise—­this newspaper wireless to your fond and lonesome?