The idea that Miss Mayfield was responsible to anybody was something new to Jeff. But he said hastily, “I must stay and wait for Bill. He risked his life for me.”

“Oh, yes! You must tell me all about it. I may wait for THAT!”

Jeff possessed himself of the chair; in some way he also possessed himself of Miss Mayfield without entirely dispossessing her. Then he told his story. He hesitated over the episode of the blacksmith. “I’m afraid I killed him, Jessie.”

Miss Mayfield betrayed little concern at this possible extreme measure with a dangerous neighbor. “He cut your head, Jeff,” she said, passing her little hand through his curls.

“No,” said Jeff hastily, “that must have been done BEFORE.”

“Well,” said Miss Mayfield conclusively, “he would if he’d dared. And you brought off that wretched money in spite of him. Poor dear Jeff.”

“Yes,” said Jeff, kissing her.

“Where is it?” asked Jessie, looking round the room.

“Oh, just out there!”

“Out where?”

“On my horse, you know, outside the door,” continued Jeff, a little uneasily, as he rose. “I’ll go and—”

“You careless boy,” said Miss Mayfield, jumping up, “I’ll go with you.”

They passed out on the porch together, holding each other’s hands, like children. The forgotten Rabbit was not there. Miss Mayfield called a vaquero.

“Ah, yes!—the caballero’s horse. Of a certainty the other caballero had taken it!”

“The other caballero!” gasped Jeff.

“Si, senor. The one who arrived with you, or a moment, the very next moment, after you. ‘Your friend,’ he said.”

Jeff staggered against the porch, and cast one despairing reproachful look at Miss Mayfield.

“Oh, Jeff! Jeff! don’t look so. I know I ought not to have kept you! It’s a mistake, Jeff, believe me.”

“It’s no mistake,” said Jeff hoarsely. “Go!” he said, turning to the vaquero, “go!—bring—” But his speech failed. He attempted to gesticulate with his hands, ran forward a few steps, staggered, and fell fainting on the ground.

“Help me with the caballero into the blue room,” said Miss Mayfield, white as Jeff. “And hark ye, Manuel! You know every ruffian, man or woman, on this road. That horse and those saddle-bags must be here to-morrow, if you have to pay DOUBLE WHAT THEY’RE WORTH!”

“Si, senora.”

Jeff went off into fever, into delirium, into helpless stupor. From time to time he moaned “Bill” and “the treasure.” On the third day, in a lucid interval, as he lay staring at the wall, Miss Mayfield put in his hand a letter from the company, acknowledging the receipt of the treasure, thanking him for his zeal, and inclosing a handsome check.

Jeff sat up, and put his hands to his head.

“I told you it was taken by mistake, and was easily found,” said Miss Mayfield, “didn’t I?”

“Yes,—and Bill?”

“You know he is so much better that he expects to leave us next week.”

“And—Jessie!”

“There—go to sleep!”

At the end of a week she introduced Jeff to her sister-in-law, having previously run her fingers through his hair to insure that becomingness to his curls which would better indicate his moral character; and spoke of him as one of her oldest Californian friends.

At the end of two weeks she again presented him as her affianced husband—a long engagement of a year being just passed. Mr. Wilson, who was bored by the mountain life, undertaken to please his rich wife and richer sister, saw a chance of escape here, and bore willing testimony to the distant Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield of the excellence of Miss Jessie’s choice. And Yuba Bill was Jeff’s best man.

The name of Briggs remained a power in Tuolumne and Calaveras County. Mr. and Mrs. Briggs never had but one word of disagreement or discussion. One day, Jeff, looking over some old accounts of his wife’s, found an unreceipted, unvouched for expenditure of twenty thousand dollars. “What is this for, Jessie?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s all right, Jeff!”

But here the now business-like and practical Mr. Briggs, father of a family, felt called upon to make some general remarks regarding the necessity of exactitude in accounts, etc.

“But I’d rather not tell you, Jeff.”

“But you ought to, Jessie.”

“Well then, dear, it was to get those saddle-bags of yours from that rascal, Dodd,” said little Mrs. Briggs meekly.