On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings the Miners’ Retreat was a scene of wild hilarity, for it was then that Mr. Moffat, gorgeously arrayed in all the bright hues of his imported Mexican outfit, his long silky mustaches properly curled, his melancholy eyes vast wells of mysterious sorrow, was known to be comfortably seated in the Herndon parlor, relating gruesome tales of wild mountain adventure which paled the cheeks of his fair and entranced listener.  Then on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday nights, when Mr. McNeil rode gallantly in on his yellow bronco, bedecked in all the picturesque paraphernalia of the boundless plains, revolver swinging at thigh, his wide sombrero shadowing his dare-devil eyes, the front of the gay Occidental blazed with lights, and became crowded to the doors with enthusiastic herders drinking deep to the success of their representative.

It is no more than simple justice to the fair Phoebe to state that she was, as her aunt expressed it, “in a dreadful state of mind.”  Between these two picturesque and typical knights of plain and mountain she vibrated, unable to make deliberate choice.  That she was ardently loved by each she realized with recurring thrills of pleasure; that she loved in return she felt no doubt—­but alas! which?  How perfectly delightful it would be could she only fall into some desperate plight, from which the really daring knight might rescue her!  That would cut the Gordian knot.  While laboring in this state of indecision she must have voiced her ambition in some effective manner to the parties concerned, for late one Wednesday night Moffat tramped heavily into the Miners’ Retreat and called Long Pete Lumley over into a deserted corner of the bar-room.

“Well, Jack,” the latter began expectantly, “hev ye railly got the cinch on that cowboy at last, hey?”

“Dern it all, Pete, I ’m blamed if I know; leastwise, I ain’t got no sure prove-up.  I tell ye thet girl’s just about the toughest piece o’ rock I ever had any special call to assay.  I think first I got her good an’ proper, an’ then she drops out all of a sudden, an’ I lose the lead.  It’s mighty aggravating let me tell ye.  Ye see it’s this way.  She ’s got some durn down East-notion that she’s got ter be rescued, an’ borne away in the arms of her hero (thet’s ’bout the way she puts it), like they do in them pesky novels the Kid ’s allers reading and so I reckon I ’ve got ter rescue her!”

“Rescue her from whut, Jack?  Thar’ ain’t nuthin’ ’round yere just now as I know of, less it’s rats.”

The lover glanced about to make sure they were alone.  “Well, ye see, Pete, maybe I ’m partly to blame.  I ‘ve sorter been entertainin’ her nights with some stories regardin’ road-agents an’ things o’ thet sort, while, so fur as I kin larn, thet blame chump of a McNeil hes been fillin’ her up scandalous with Injuns, until she ’s plum got ’em on the brain.  Ye know a feller jist hes ter gas along ‘bout somethin’ like thet, fer it’s no fool job ter entertain a female thet’s es frisky es a young colt.  And now, I reckon as how it’s got ter be Injuns.”