Part 3 (1/2)

”Say, you're kinder full of ideas yourself, ain't you?” Bill interrupted, unexpectedly turning and bringing his thin, unshaven face close to the other man's, quite unwonted force and anger in his manner.

”Daddy!” Millie cried, while his wife stared at him.

The anger left his face and the old, shrewd, humorous light crept back into his eyes.

”I don't believe in more 'n one idea at a time,” he said, grinning.

”No--I guess mother an' me an' Millie 'll try out that little busted-heart notion o' mine first, afore we tackles any other notions.

Guess I'll turn in, mother--had a kinder tall day. Look sorter all in yourself. Better come along. Tirin' business, havin' ideas. If Mr.

Thomas 'ain't been entertained ernough, maybe Millie 'll stay down an'

keep the show goin'.” And he got up slowly, stuck his hands in his pockets, and ambled into the house.

”I think we'd better go in, too, mother,” said Millie, rising. ”I know you're just f.a.gged out, and it's late, anyway. You won't mind if we leave you to finish your cigar, Mr. Thomas, will you?”

”Not at all! Not at all!” Thomas exclaimed, with his smile. ”A thousand pardons for keeping you up so late--it was thoughtless of me!”

He sprang to the screen door, held it open for them, and called a cheery ”Good-night!” as they disappeared up the stairs. Then he sat down again and thoughtfully finished his cigar. He appeared to have a lot to think about, to figure out. When finally he went up to his own room a light burned there for an hour longer.

In the morning Bill Jones was up and about unwontedly early. He got himself some breakfast, then went to the little desk where the few boarders habitually left the letters they had written the night before for the outgoing mail, which he took to the post-office. He found some half-dozen letters on the desk this morning, and he examined the addresses deliberately. One in particular seemed to interest him immensely. It was in a handwriting he had seen before and recognized as that of Raymond Thomas. He put a finger to his cheek and gazed up at the ceiling--which is the same as saying that Bill Jones was making a careful mental note of the name and address on that letter. It was addressed to one Everett Hammone, the Golden Gate Land Company, San Francisco. It was quite obvious that Bill Jones had a strong desire to know the contents of that letter; but he dropped it carelessly among the rest, bundled them up with a string and stuffed them in his pocket as he strolled out of the house on his daily journey.

Out on the trail a bit, his ambling feet came to a pause. He took out his tobacco and papers and rolled a cigarette. Lighting it, he turned around and gazed up the mountain, his eyes blinking in the morning sunlight as they rested on the dot that was John Marvin's cabin. For a moment it seemed as if Bill had it in mind to change his direction and go up the mountain.

”I sure would like to have er talk with John,” he mused. ”Sure would.

'Ain't had a talk with him for some time. But I guess as John is pretty put to it with that there timber proposition--things must be gittin'

some excited up there! Maybe I'll go up to-morrer.”

And having characteristically decided to do it to-morrow, Bill continued his morning stroll toward the post-office.

CHAPTER III

For reasons obvious and otherwise, Bill Jones did not carry out his intention of visiting John Marvin's cabin ”to-morrow.” In spite of himself, Bill naturally was drawn into the vortex of work and preparation necessary to turning his home into the Calivada Hotel. The period of change was a nightmare to Bill, the only leaven in his misery being the astonis.h.i.+ng fact that he actually evolved quite a number of ideas--ideas which Mrs. Jones, Millie, and Lem Townsend not only O.K.'d, but put into instant execution--and found exceedingly workable. He made many attempts to disappear from the premises, but his wife, or Millie, or Lem always had an eye on him and managed to frustrate his hasty sorties or more subtle schemes to take French leave. This went on day after day, and now Bill had endured nearly six weeks of more or less pleasantly enforced captivity.

In the mean time the mysterious ”excitement” up the mountain about which Bill had mused that morning on the trail had come to a head, and John Marvin's little cabin seemed to be the center of it.

It was shortly after sundown one evening that a big, red-headed lumberjack, obviously a Swede, put his head in the door of the cabin and glanced quickly around the one room. Seeing that there was no one inside, he entered, closing the door behind him. Going to the window, he looked out through the thick grove of pines and cedars, but evidently could see no one. He was breathing hard, as if from running, and he sank into a chair.

His rest was short-lived. There was a rap at the door, which was instantly pushed open, and a lanky, sinewy man in sombrero and riding-breeches, with two revolvers at the belt, strode in. The Swede, on his feet in an instant, recognized the intruder as Nevin Blodgett, sheriff of Washoe County.

”What you want?” the lumberjack asked, in his heavy voice.

The sheriff did not answer at once, but took a quick survey of the cabin's contents, his eyes lighting up as they rested upon the unwashed dishes on the table, telling of a recent meal. There was a self-satisfied swagger about the sheriff as he walked up to the Swede.

”You're John Marvin, ain't you?” he demanded.

”No, sir,” replied the Swede, with a heavy frown.