The Denver Express | Page 6

I couldn't help it. Oh!
please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'm Sally Johnson,
daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My mother died
when I was little, and I never had a show; and folks think because I live
with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I
must be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a
kind word to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild,
and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in,
and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came
in my heart that I'd speak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly
forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair. "I suppose
your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew me; but
I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he was here before, there
was a young man"--here a faint color came in the wan cheeks--"who
was fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my father was
down on him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him;
and Mr. Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've waited and
waited for him to come back--and perhaps I'll never see him again. But
oh! dear lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. He's a good man,
and he deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared
I'd pray for you both, night and day."
She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale as before, and as
if frightened by her own emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with
sympathy and increasing interest.
"My poor girl," she said, speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft voice)
and with slightly heightened color, "I am delighted that you came to see
me, and that my husband was able to help you. Tell me, can we not do
more for you? I do not for one moment believe you can be happy with
your present surroundings. Can we not assist you to leave them?"
The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. "I thank you for your words," she
said. "I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, God bless
you!"
She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to her lips, and was gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, and he
listened with much interest to her story.
"Poor girl!" said he; "Foster is the man to help her. I wonder where he
is? I must inquire about him."
The next day they proceeded on their way to San Francisco, and
matters drifted on at Barker's much as before. Johnson had, after an
absence of some months, come back and lived without molestation
amid the shifting population. Now and then, too, some of the older
residents fancied they recognized, under slouched sombreros, the faces
of some of his former "crowd" about the "Ranchman's Home," as his
gaudy saloon was called.
Late on the very evening on which this story opens, and they had been
"making up" the Denver Express in the train-house on the Missouri,
"Jim" Watkins, agent and telegrapher at Barker's, was sitting in his little
office, communicating with the station rooms by the ticket window.
Jim was a cool, silent, efficient man, and not much given to talk about
such episodes in his past life as the "wiping out" by Indians of the
construction party to which he belonged, and his own rescue by the
scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, and talking with one
of "the boys" whose head appeared at the wicket. On a seat in the
station sat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently waiting for a
train.
"Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't yer, Jim?" remarked the
man at the window.
"Yes," replied Jim; "they're for Engineer Sinclair, to be delivered to
him when he passes through here. He left on No. 17, to-night." The
inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the woman near him.
"Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a-comin' with him?" asked he.
"Yes, there's letters for her, too."
"Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later," and he went out. The woman

suddenly rose and ran to the window.
"Mr. Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a few moments where no
one can interrupt us? It's a matter of life and death." She clutched the
sill with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized
Sally Johnson in a moment.