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“I have picked up–I mean I have been picked up on the road by a gentle maniac, whose name is not Kearney. He is well armed and quotes Dickens. With care, acquiescence in his views on all subjects, and general submission to his commands, he may be placated. Doubtless the spectacle of your helpless family, the contemplation of your daughter’s beauty and innocence, may touch his fine sense of humor and pathos. Meanwhile, Heaven help you, and forgive me.”

I ran upstairs to the little den that my hospitable host had kept always reserved for me in my wanderings. I lingered some time over my ablutions, hearing the languid, gentlemanly drawl of Sylvester below, mingled with the equally cool, easy slang of my mysterious acquaintance. When I came down to the sitting-room I was surprised, however, to find the self-styled Kearney quietly seated on the sofa, the gentle May Sylvester, the “Lily of Lone Valley,” sitting with maidenly awe and unaffected interest on one side of him, while on the other that arrant flirt, her cousin Kate, was practicing the pitiless archery of her eyes, with an excitement that seemed almost real.

“Who is your deliciously cool friend?” she managed to whisper to me at supper, as I sat utterly dazed and bewildered between the enrapt May Sylvester, who seemed to hang upon his words, and this giddy girl of the period, who was emptying the battery of her charms in active rivalry upon him. “Of course we know his name isn’t Kearney. But how romantic! And isn’t he perfectly lovely? And who is he?”

I replied with severe irony that I was not aware what foreign potentate was then traveling incognito in the Sierras of California, but that when his royal highness was pleased to inform me, I should be glad to introduce him properly. “Until then,” I added, “I fear the acquaintance must be Morganatic.”

“You’re only jealous of him,” she said pertly. “Look at May–she is completely fascinated. And her father, too.” And actually, the languid, world-sick, cynical Sylvester was regarding him with a boyish interest and enthusiasm almost incompatible with his nature. Yet I submit honestly to the clear-headed reason of my own sex, that I could see nothing more in the man than I have already delivered to the reader.

In the middle of an exciting story of adventure, of which he, to the already prejudiced mind of his fair auditors, was evidently the hero, he stopped suddenly.

“It’s only some pack train passing the bridge on the lower trail,” explained Sylvester; “go on.”

“It may be my horse is a trifle oneasy in the stable,” said the alleged Kearney; “he ain’t used to boards and covering.” Heaven only knows what wild and delicious revelation lay in the statement of this fact, but the girls looked at each other with cheeks pink with excitement as Kearney arose, and, with quiet absence of ceremony, quitted the table.

“Ain’t he just lovely?” said Kate, gasping for breath, “and so witty.”

“Witty!” said the gentle May, with just the slightest trace of defiance in her sweet voice; “witty, my dear? why, don’t you see that his heart is just breaking with pathos? Witty, indeed; why, when he was speaking of that poor Mexican woman that was hung, I saw the tears gather in his eyes. Witty, indeed!”

“Tears,” laughed the cynical Sylvester, “tears, idle tears. Why, you silly children, the man is a man of the world, a philosopher, quiet, observant, unassuming.”

“Unassuming!” Was Sylvester intoxicated, or had the mysterious stranger mixed the “insane verb” with the family pottage? He returned before I could answer this self-asked inquiry, and resumed coolly his broken narrative. Finding myself forgotten in the man I had so long hesitated to introduce to my friends, I retired to rest early, only to hear, through the thin partitions, two hours later, enthusiastic praises of the new guest from the voluble lips of the girls, as they chatted in the next room before retiring.

At midnight I was startled by the sound of horses’ hoofs and the jingling of spurs below. A conversation between my host and some mysterious personage in the darkness was carried on in such a low tone that I could not learn its import. As the cavalcade rode away I raised the window.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Sylvester, coolly, “only another one of those playful homicidal freaks peculiar to the country. A man was shot by Cherokee Jack over at Lagrange this morning, and that was the sheriff of Calaveras and his posse hunting him. I told him I’d seen nobody but you and your friend. By the way, I hope the cursed noise hasn’t disturbed him. The poor fellow looked as if he wanted rest.”

I thought so, too. Nevertheless, I went softly to his room. It was empty. My impression was that he had distanced the sheriff of Calaveras about two hours.