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The Wooing Of Miss Woppit
by
It was lucky that we organized a city government when we did. All communities have streaks of bad luck, and it was just after we had elected a mayor, a marshal, and a full quota of officers that Red Hoss Mountain had a spell of experiences that seemed likely at one time to break up the camp. There ‘s no telling where it all would have ended if we had n’t happened to have a corps of vigilant and brave men in office, determined to maintain law and order at all personal hazards. With a camp, same as ’tis with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a bad name.
The tidal wave of crime–if I may so term it–struck us three days after the election. I remember distinctly that all our crowd was in at Casey’s, soon after nightfall, indulging in harmless pleasantries, such as eating, drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling how he had turned several cute tricks on election day, and his recital recalled to others certain exciting experiences they had had in the states; so, in an atmosphere of tobacco, beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and with the further delectable stimulus of seven-year-old McBrayer, the evening opened up congenially and gave great promise. The boys were convivial, if not boisterous. But Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of his exalted office on his coat-front, was present in the interests of peace and order, and the severest respect was shown to the newly elected representative of municipal dignity and authority.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed like it said, “Quick–trouble–help!” By the merest chance–a lucky chance–Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he reached for the telephone and answered the summons.
“Yes.” “Where?” “You bet–right away!”
That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk. But we knew that something–something remarkable had happened. Jim was visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over against us, he said, “By —-, boys! the stage hez been robbed!”
A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.
Hank Eaves’ broncho was tied in front of Casey’s.
“Tell me where to go,” says Hank, “and I ‘ll git thar in a minnit. I ‘m fixed.”
“No, Hank,” says Jim Woppit, commanding like, “I ‘ll go. I ‘m city marshal, an’ it’s my place to go–I ‘m the repersentive of law an’ order an’ I ‘ll enforce ’em–damn me ef I don’t!”
“That’s bizness–Jim’s head ‘s level!” cried Barber Sam.
“Let Jim have the broncho,” the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble–cussedest fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky little broncho and was off like a flash.
“Come on, boys,” he called back to us; “come on, ez fast ez you kin to the glen!”
Of course we could n’t anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away–just a trifle up along the main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss Woppit–incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit’s slender figure flitting to and fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor girl!
It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along about eight o’clock the stage reached the glen–a darkish, dismal spot, and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr. Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person outside. As the stage reached the summit of the little hill the figure of a man stole suddenly from the thicket by the roadside, stood directly in front of the leading horses, and commanded a halt. The movement was so sudden as to terrify the horses, and the consequence was that, in shying, the brutes came near tipping the coach completely over. Barclay was powerless to act, for the assailant covered him with two murderous revolvers and bade him throw up his hands.