kets and shawls, the latter greedily eyed
by every Indian woman who came into the store. There were farming
implements and boots and groceries and harness. In the corner where Bill
Talpers sat was the most interesting collection of all. This corner was
called the pawnshop. Here Bill paid cash for silver rings and bracelets,
and for turquoise and other semi-precious stones either mounted or in
the rough. Here he dickered for finely beaded moccasins and hat-bands
and other articles for which he found a profitable market in the East.
Here watches were put up for redemption, disappearing after they had
hung their allotted time.

Traders on the reservation were not permitted to have such corners in
their stores, but Bill, being over the line, drove such bargains as he
pleased and took such security as he wished.

As Bill looked over his oft-appraised stock, it seemed to have lost much
of its one-time charm. Storekeeping for a bunch of Indians and
cowpunchers was no business for a smart, self-respecting man to be in--a
man who had ambitions to be somebody in a busier world. The thing to do
was to sell out and clear out--after he had married that girl at
Morgan's ranch. He had been too lenient with that girl, anyway. Here he
held the whip-hand over her and had never used it. He had been waiting
from day to day, gloating over his opportunities, and this Indian agent
had been calling on her and maybe was getting her confidence.

Maybe it had gone so far that the girl had told Lowell about the letter
she had mailed and that Bill had held up. Something akin to a chill
moved along Bill's spinal column at the thought. But of course such a
thing could not be. The girl couldn't afford to talk about anything like
that letter, which was certain to drag her into the murder.

Bill looked at the letter again and then tucked it back in the safe.
That was the best place to keep it. It might get lost out of his pocket
and then there'd be the very devil to pay. He knew it all by heart,
anyway. It was enough to give him what he wanted--this girl for a wife.
She simply couldn't resist, with that letter held over her by a
determined man like Bill Talpers. After he had married her, he'd sell
out this pile of junk and let somebody else haggle with the Injuns and
cowpunchers. Bill Talpers'd go where he could wear good clothes every
day, and his purty wife'd hold up her head with the best of them! He'd
go over and state his case that very night. H