“Man alive.  A’d like t’ spank him!”

Wayland laughed.

“I guess he’s staying with our white-vested friend,” he said, as he pulled the saddles off the animals and gave them a slap heading down to the drinking trough; but when he turned, Calamity stood in the door of the Cabin holding out a letter.  He forgot to greet her; for the handwriting was Eleanor’s.  He tore the envelope open devouring the words in his eagerness; then his face clouded.

“What in thunder does it all mean?  Listen.

’Dear Dick:  I don’t know when you will come home, but as soon as you do, you will learn of something abominable that has been published.  I’m going to send Calamity up with this every day so she will be sure to catch you first thing.’ ("It’s dated three weeks ago,” interjected Wayland.) ’They have struck at you through me.  Don’t mind, Dick.  They did it to make you stop.  You will not stop, will you?  It didn’t hurt me.’ (Oh, brave beautiful liar!  Does the Angel Gabriel take note of such lies by women; and which side of the account does he put them on?) ’Father says a fact is a hard nut to crack.  You’re not to take any notice of this attack on me.  You’re not to flinch from the fight for my sake or deflect a hair’s breadth on my account.  You know what you said.  Things have gone so far that crime is invading decent lives.  Well, it has invaded yours and mine; and you’re not to slack one jot.  Dick, I command it.  I command it in the name of that seal I gave you.’

‘E.  MacD.’”

“What in thunder does it all mean?” reiterated Wayland.

“What seal is that she speaks of?  A’m thinkin’ if you’ll read that pile of mail in there on the table, you’ll find out.”

“Any ansher?” asked Calamity softly, by which, you may guess, dear reader, that an Indian woman has a heart under her ribs as well as you.

“Wait,” said Wayland.

He tore a sheet from his field book.  This is what he wrote: 

I shall obey you implicitly, my Alder Liefest.  I don’t know what it is yet; but I’ll not let it make any difference in the fight no matter what it is.  I have thought of that seal every day and night since I left you, and all day and all night; and I couldn’t have pulled through this trip if I hadn’t had that well of memory to drink from.  You saved my life, tho’ you don’t know it.  Matthews will tell you:  and you saved his too.

Dick. (nth.)

P. S. There’s a funny little kid up here, been left by her father in one of the settlers’ tents.  She’s the most pitiable little object I ever saw.  I think her father is a drunken tough from Shanty Town.  She oughtn’t to be left up here alone near such a baby-eater as I am.  I wish you’d come up and see about her.  If you don’t come alone, get Mrs. Williams, or my friend, Matthews.