Part 23 (1/2)

Juliet, listening, noted that his conversation was that of a comparatively well-educated man and that he had none of the characteristic drawl or accent of the plainsmen. To her a camera was nothing out of the ordinary, although she had not seen one since her final return West, but her mother was vastly interested.

In those days photography was not a matter of universal luxury as it is now, and the enterprising Skidmore was practically the first to introduce it as a money-maker in the widely scattered ranches of the cow country.

”How do yuh sell 'em?” asked Martha Bissell, fluttering with the possibilities of the next morning, the time the young man had set for his operation. Martha had not been ”took” since that far-off trip ”East” to St. Paul, when she and Henry had posed for daguerreotypes.

”Five dollars apiece, ma'am,” said Skidmore, ”and they're cheap at the price.” And they were, since the cost of something universally desired is dependent on the supply rather than the demand.

After supper Martha retired to her bedroom to overhaul her stock of ”swell” dresses, a stock that had not been disturbed in fifteen years except for the spring cleaning and airing. This left Skidmore and Juliet alone. She civilly invited him out on the veranda, seeing he was a man of some quality.

”I had a queer experience to-day,” he remarked after a few commonplaces.

”I was riding to the Bar T from the Circle-Arrow and was about twenty miles away, rounding a b.u.t.te, when a man rode out to me from some place of concealment.

”When he reached me he suddenly pulled his gun and covered me.

”'Where are you goin'?' he said. I told him I was on my way here and why.

He examined my outfit suspiciously and let me go. But first he said:

”'Take this letter to the Bar T and give it to Miss Bissell.'” Skidmore reached inside his s.h.i.+rt and pulled forth a square envelope, which he handed to Juliet. ”The whole thing was so strange,” the photographer went on, ”that I have waited until I could see you alone so that I could tell you about it.”

Juliet, surprised and startled, turned the missive over in her hands, hopeful that it was a letter from Bud and yet fearful of something that she could not explain. When Skidmore had finished she excused herself and went into her room, closing the door behind her.

On the envelope was the simple inscription, ”Miss Bissell,” written in a crabbed, angular hand. This satisfied her that the message was not from Bud, and with trembling fingers she opened it. Inside was an oblong sheet of paper filled with the same narrow handwriting. Going to the window to catch the dying light, she read:

Miss:

This is to tell yuh that Mr. Larkin who yuh love is already merried.

It ain't none of my biznis, but I want yuh to no it. An' that ain't all. The U. s. oficers are looking for him on another charge, tu.

n.o.body noes this but me an' yuh, an' n.o.body will as long as the monie keeps comin' in. If yuh doant bileeve this, axe him.

Yurs Truly, A Friend.

In the difficulty of translating the words before her into logical ideas the full import of the statements made did not penetrate Juliet's mind at first. When they did she merely smiled a calm, contemptuous smile.

With the usual fatuous faith of a sweetheart, she instantly consigned to limbo anything whatever derogatory to her beloved. Then in full possession of herself, she returned to the veranda, where Skidmore was smoking a cigarette.

”No bad news I hope?” he asked politely, scrutinizing her features.

”Oh, no, thanks,” she replied, laughing a little unnaturally. ”Not really bad, just disturbing,” and they continued their interrupted conversation.

But that night when she was in bed the crude letters of that missive appeared before her eyes in lines of fire. Of late the old mystery of Bud's past life had not been much in her thoughts; love, the obliterator, had successfully wiped away the last traces of uneasiness that she had felt, and like all true and good women, she had given him the priceless treasure of her love, not questioning, not seeking to discern what he would have shown her had it seemed right in his mind that she should see.

But this scrawled letter to-night brought back with stunning force all the distress and doubts that had formerly a.s.sailed her. She guessed, and rightly, that Smithy Caldwell was the author of it, but she could not a.n.a.lyze the motives that had inspired his pen.

She told herself with fatal logic that if all this were a lie, Caldwell would not dare write it; that Larkin had paid this man five hundred dollars on another occasion not so far gone; and that it was avowedly a case of impudent blackmail. She knew, furthermore, that Bud carefully avoided all references to Caldwell even when she had brought forward the name, and that in the conversation overheard by Stelton there had been mention of someone by the name of Mary.

What if this money were going to another woman!