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The Conspiracy Of Mrs. Bunker
by
Nor should she show him the ring. The stranger had certainly never said anything about that! It was a heavy ring, with a helmeted head carved on its red carnelian stone, and what looked like strange letters around it. It fitted her third finger perfectly; but HIS fingers were small, and he had taken it from his little finger. She should keep it herself. Of course, if it had been money, she would have given it to Zephas; but the stranger knew that she wouldn’t take money. How firmly he had said that “I don’t!” She felt the warm blood fly to her fresh young face at the thought of it. He had understood her. She might be living in a poor cabin, doing all the housework herself, and her husband only a fisherman, but he had treated her like a lady.
And so the afternoon passed. The outlying fog began to roll in at the Golden Gate, obliterating the headland and stretching a fleecy bar across the channel as if shutting out from vulgar eyes the way that he had gone. Night fell, but Zephas had not yet come. This was unusual, for he was generally as regular as the afternoon “trades” which blew him there. There was nothing to detain him in this weather and at this season. She began to be vaguely uneasy; then a little angry at this new development of his incompatibility. Then it occurred to her, for the first time in her wifehood, to think what she would do if he were lost. Yet, in spite of some pain, terror, and perplexity at the possibility, her dominant thought was that she would be a free woman to order her life as she liked.
It was after ten before his lateen sail flapped in the little cove. She was waiting to receive him on the shore. His good-humored hirsute face was slightly apologetic in expression, but flushed and disturbed with some new excitement to which an extra glass or two of spirits had apparently added intensity. The contrast between his evident indulgence and the previous abstemiousness of her late guest struck her unpleasantly. “Well–I declare,” she said indignantly, “so THAT’S what kept you!”
“No,” he said quickly; “there’s been awful times over in ‘Frisco! Everybody just wild, and the Vigilance Committee in session. Jo Henderson’s killed! Shot by Wynyard Marion in a duel! He’ll be lynched, sure as a gun, if they ketch him.”
“But I thought men who fought duels always went free.”
“Yes, but this ain’t no common duel; they say the whole thing was planned beforehand by them Southern fire-eaters to get rid o’ Henderson because he’s a Northern man and anti-slavery, and that they picked out Colonel Marion to do it because he was a dead shot. They got him to insult Henderson, so he was bound to challenge Marion, and that giv’ Marion the chyce of weppings. It was a reg’lar put up job to kill him.”
“And what’s all this to do with you?” she asked, with irritation.
“Hold on, won’t you! and I’ll tell you. I was pickin’ up nets off Saucelito about noon, when I was hailed by one of them Vigilance tugs, and they set me to stand off and on the shore and watch that Marion didn’t get away, while they were scoutin’ inland. Ye see THE DUEL TOOK PLACE JUST OVER THE BLUFF THERE–BEHIND YE–and they allowed that Marion had struck away north for Mendocino to take ship there. For after overhaulin’ his second’s boat, they found out that they had come away from Saucelito ALONE. But they sent a tug around by sea to Mendocino to head him off there, while they’re closin’ in around him inland. They’re bound to catch him sooner or later. But you ain’t listenin’, Mollie?”
She was–in every fibre–but with her head turned towards the window, and the invisible Golden Gate through which the fugitive had escaped. For she saw it all now–that glorious vision–her high-bred, handsome guest and Wynyard Marion were one and the same person. And this rough, commonplace man before her–her own husband–had been basely set to capture him!