At Denver there was an influx of passengers into the coaches on the eastbound B. & M. express. —
In one coach there sat a very pretty young woman dressed in elegant taste and surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of an experienced traveler. —
Among the newcomers were two young men, one of handsome presence with a bold, frank countenance and manner; —
the other a ruffled, glum-faced person, heavily built and roughly dressed. —
The two were handcuffed together.
As they passed down the aisle of the coach the only vacant seat offered was a reversed one facing the attractive young woman. —
Here the linked couple seated themselves. —
The young woman’s glance fell upon them with a distant, swift disinterest; —
then with a lovely smile brightening her countenance and a tender pink tingeing her rounded cheeks, she held out a little gray-gloved hand. —
When she spoke her voice, full, sweet, and deliberate, proclaimed that its owner was accustomed to speak and be heard.
“Well, Mr. Easton, if you will make me speak first, I suppose I must. Don’t vou ever recognize old friends when you meet them in the West?”
The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound of her voice, seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassment which he threw off instantly, and then clasped her fingers with his left hand.
“It’s Miss Fairchild,” he said, with a smile. —
“I’ll ask you to excuse the other hand; —
“it’s otherwise engaged just at present.”
He slightly raised his right hand, bound at the wrist by the shining “bracelet” to the left one of his companion. —
The glad look in the girl’s eyes slowly changed to a bewildered horror. —
The glow faded from her cheeks. —
Her lips parted in a vague, relaxing distress. Easton, with a little laugh, as if amused, was about to speak again when the other forestalled him. —
The glum-faced man had been watching the girl’s countenance with veiled glances from his keen, shrewd eyes.
“You’ll excuse me for speaking, miss, but, I see you’re acquainted with the marshall here. —
If you’ll ask him to speak a word for me when we get to the pen he’ll do it, and it’ll make things easier for me there. —
He’s taking me to Leavenworth prison. —
It’s seven years for counterfeiting.”
“Oh!” said the girl, with a deep breath and returning color. —
“So that is what you are doing out here? —
A marshal!”
“My dear Miss Fairchild,” said Easton, calmly, “I had to do something. —
Money has a way of taking wings unto itself, and you know it takes money to keep step with our crowd in Washington. —
I saw this opening in the West, and–well, a marshalship isn’t quite as high a position as that of ambassador, but–”
“The ambassador,” said the girl, warmly, “doesn’t call any more. He needn’t ever have done so. —
You ought to know that. —
And so now you are one of these dashing Western heroes, and you ride and shoot and go into all kinds of dangers. —
That’s different from the Washington life. —
You have been missed from the old crowd.”
The girl’s eyes, fascinated, went back, widening a little, to rest upon the glittering handcuffs.
“Don’t you worry about them, miss,” said the other man. —
“All marshals handcuff themselves to their prisoners to keep them from getting away. —
Mr. Easton knows his business.”
“Will we see you again soon in Washington?” asked the girl.
“Not soon, I think,” said Easton. —
“My butterfly days are over, I fear.”
“I love the West,” said the girl irrelevantly. —
Her eyes were shining softly. —
She looked away out the car window. —
She began to speak truly and simply without the gloss of style and manner: —
“Mamma and I spent the summer in Denver. —
She went home a week ago because father was slightly ill. —
I could live and be happy in the West. I think the air here agrees with me. —
Money isn’t everything. But people always misunderstand things and remain stupid–”
“Say, Mr. Marshal,” growled the glum-faced man. —
“This isn’t quite fair. I’m needing a drink, and haven’t had a smoke all day. —
Haven’t you talked long enough? —
Take me in the smoker now, won’t you? —
I’m half dead for a pipe.”
The bound travelers rose to their feet, Easton with the same slow smile on his face.
“I can’t deny a petition for tobacco,” he said, lightly. —
“It’s the one friend of the unfortunate. —
Good-bye, Miss Fairchild. Duty calls, you know.” He held out his hand for a farewell.
“It’s too bad you are not going East,” she said, reclothing herself with manner and style. —
“But you must go on to Leavenworth, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Easton, “I must go on to Leavenworth.”
The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
The two passengers in a seat near by had heard most of the conversation. —
Said one of them: —
“That marshal’s a good sort of chap. —
Some of these Western fellows are all right.”
“Pretty young to hold an office like that, isn’t he?” asked the other.
“Young!” exclaimed the first speaker, “why–Oh! —
didn’t you catch on? Say–did you ever know an officer to handcuff a prisoner to his right hand?”