Frontier Stories | Page 9

watched her lithe, nymph-like figure disappear in the checkered
shadows of the wood, and then he turned briskly down the half-hidden

trail. His eyesight was keen, he made good progress, and was soon well
on his way toward the distant ridge.
But Flip's return had not been as rapid. When she reached the wood she
crept to its beetling verge, and looking across the cañon watched
Lance's figure as it vanished and reappeared in the shadows and
sinuosities of the ascent. When he reached the ridge the outlying fog
crept across the summit, caught him in its embrace, and wrapped him
from her gaze. Flip sighed, raised herself, put her alternate foot on a
stump, and took a long pull at her too-brief stockings. When she had
pulled down her skirt and endeavored once more to renew the intimacy
that had existed in previous years between the edge of her petticoat and
the top of her stockings, she sighed again, and went home.

CHAPTER III.
For six months the sea fogs monotonously came and went along the
Monterey coast; for six months they beleaguered the Coast Range with
afternoon sorties of white hosts that regularly swept over the mountain
crest, and were as regularly beaten back again by the leveled lances of
the morning sun. For six months that white veil which had once hidden
Lance Harriott in its folds returned without him. For that amiable
outlaw no longer needed disguise or hiding-place. The swift wave of
pursuit that had dashed him on the summit had fallen back, and the next
day was broken and scattered. Before the week had passed, a regular
judicial inquiry relieved his crime of premeditation, and showed it to be
a rude duel of two armed and equally desperate men. From a secure
vantage in a sea-coast town Lance challenged a trial by his peers, and,
as an already prejudged man escaping from his executioners, obtained a
change of venue. Regular justice, seated by the calm Pacific, found the
action of an interior, irregular jury rash and hasty. Lance was liberated
on bail.
The Postmaster at Fisher's Crossing had just received the weekly mail
and express from San Francisco, and was engaged in examining it. It

consisted of five letters and two parcels. Of these, three of the letters
and the two parcels were directed to Flip. It was not the first time
during the last six months that this extraordinary event had occurred,
and the curiosity of the Crossing was duly excited. As Flip had never
called personally for the letters or parcels, but had sent one of her wild,
irregular scouts or henchmen to bring them, and as she was seldom
seen at the Crossing or on the stage road, that curiosity was never
satisfied. The disappointment to the Postmaster--a man past the middle
age--partook of a sentimental nature. He looked at the letters and
parcels; he looked at his watch; it was yet early, he could return by
noon. He again examined the addresses; they were in the same
handwriting as the previous letters. His mind was made up, he would
deliver them himself. The poetic, soulful side of his mission was
delicately indicated by a pale blue necktie, a clean shirt, and a small
package of ginger-nuts, of which Flip was extravagantly fond.
The common road to Fairley's Ranch was by the stage turnpike to a
point below the Gin and Ginger Woods, where the prudent horseman
usually left his beast and followed the intersecting trail afoot. It was
here that the Postmaster suddenly observed on the edge of the wood the
figure of an elegantly dressed woman; she was walking slowly, and
apparently at her ease; one hand held her skirts lightly gathered
between her gloved fingers, the other slowly swung a riding-whip. Was
it a picnic of some people from Monterey or Santa Cruz? The spectacle
was novel enough to justify his coming nearer. Suddenly she withdrew
into the wood; he lost sight of her; she was gone. He remembered,
however, that Flip was still to be seen, and as the steep trail was
beginning to tax all his energies, he was fain to hurry forward. The sun
was nearly vertical when he turned into the cañon, and saw the bark
roof of the cabin beyond. At almost the same moment Flip appeared,
flushed and panting, in the road before him.
"You've got something for me," she said, pointing to the parcel and
letter. Completely taken by surprise, the Postmaster mechanically
yielded them up, and as instantly regretted it. "They're paid for,"
continued Flip, observing his hesitation.

"That's so," stammered the official of the Crossing, seeing his last
chance of knowing the contents of the parcel vanish; "but I thought ez
it's a valooable package, maybe ye might want to examine