and haggard face,
made him appear another man from the one who had sat down. There was a
slight touch of apologetic deference and humility in his manner as he
paid his reckoning, and slowly and hesitatingly began to descend the
steps.

The bar-keeper looked after him thoughtfully. "Well, dog my skin!"
he ejaculated to himself, "ef I hadn't seen that man--that same Ruth
Pinkney--straddle a friend's body in this yer very room, and dare a
whole crowd to come on, I'd swar that he hadn't any grit in him. Thar's
something up!"

But here Ruth reached the last step, and turned again.

"If you see old man Nixon, say I'm in town; if you see that --------
----" (I regret to say that I cannot repeat his exact, and brief
characterization of the present condition and natal antecedents of
Kanaka Joe), "say I'm looking out for him," and was gone.

He wandered down the road, towards the one long, straggling street of
the settlement. The few people who met him at that early hour greeted
him with a kind of constrained civility; certain cautious souls hurried
by without seeing him; all turned and looked after him; and a few
followed him at a respectful distance. A somewhat notorious practical
joker and recognized wag at the Ferry apparently awaited his coming with
something of invitation and expectation, but, catching sight of Ruth's
haggard face and blazing eyes, became instantly practical, and by no
means jocular in his greeting. At the top of the hill, Ruth turned to
look once more upon the distant mountain, now again a mere cloud-line
on the horizon. In the firm belief that he would never again see the sun
rise upon it, he turned aside into a hazel-thicket, and, tearing out a
few leaves from his pocket-book, wrote two letters,--one to Rand, and
one to Mornie, but which, as they were never delivered, shall not burden
this brief chronicle of that eventful day. For, while transcribing them,
he was startled by the sounds of a dozen pistol-shots in the direction
of the hotel he had recently quitted. Something in the mere sound
provoked the old hereditary fighting instinct, and sent him to his feet
with a bound, and a slight distension of the nostrils, and sniffing of
the air, not unknown to certain men who become half intoxicated by
the smell of powder. He quickly folded his letters, and addressed
them carefully, and, taking off his knapsack and blanket, methodically
arranged them under a tree, with the letters on top. Then he examined