sit up and wait. He might come and even snake you out of your beds!
He might come with four white horses and a nigger driver, or he might
come disguised as an ornary tramp. Only you've got to be keen on
watchin'.' (Ye see," interrupted Daddy explanatorily, "that'll jest keep
them kids lively.) 'He says Cissy's to stop cryin' right off, and if
Willie Walker hits yer on the right cheek you just slug out with your
left fist, 'cordin' to Scripter.' Gosh," ejaculated Daddy, stopping
suddenly and gazing anxiously at Houston, "there's that blamed
photograph--I clean forgot that."

"And Dick hasn't got one in the shop, and never had," returned Houston
emphatically. "Golly! that stumps us! Unless," he added, with diabolical
thoughtfulness, "we take Bob's? The kids don't remember Dick's face, and
Bob's about the same age. And it's a regular star picture--you bet! Bob
had it taken in Sacramento--in all his war paint. See!" He indicated a
photograph pinned against the wall--a really striking likeness which did
full justice to Bob's long silken mustache and large, brown determined
eyes. "I'll snake it off while they ain't lookin', and you jam it in
the letter. Bob won't miss it, and we can fix it up with Dick after he's
well, and send another."

Daddy silently grasped the "infant's" hand, who presently secured the
photograph without attracting attention from the card-players. It was
promptly inclosed in the letter, addressed to Master James Lasham. The
"infant" started with it to the post-office, and Daddy Folsom returned
to Lasham's cabin to relieve the watcher that had been detached from
Falloner's to take his place beside the sick man.

Meanwhile the rain fell steadily and the shadows crept higher and higher
up the mountain. Towards midnight the star points faded out one by one
over Sawyer's Ledge even as they had come, with the difference that the
illumination of Falloner's cabin was extinguished first, while the dim
light of Lasham's increased in number. Later, two stars seemed to shoot
from the centre of the ledge, trailing along the descent, until they
were lost in the obscurity of the slope--the lights of the stage-coach
to Sacramento carrying the mail and Robert Falloner. They met and passed
two fainter lights toiling up the road--the buggy lights of the doctor,
hastily summoned from Carterville to the bedside of the dying Dick
Lasham.

The slowing up of his train caused Bob Falloner to start from a half
doze in a Wes