no
opportunity of doing so, for Bill frequently reminded him of her, and
as a result it was not long before he found a place for his charge, in
the home of a leading merchant. Arrangements made, Bill went in search
of the mail-carrier.

Petersen was drinking with two friends at the bar of the Last Chance,
and he pressed his late passenger to join them. But alcoholism was not
one of Mr. Hyde's weaknesses. The best of Bill's bad habits was much
worse than drink; he had learned from experience that liquor put a
traitor's tongue in his head, and in consequence he was a teetotaler.

"I got a job for you, Pete," he announced. "I got you another
sled-load for your next trip. You know Ponatah?"

"Ponatah? Sure Aye know 'im." Petersen. spoke with enthusiasm.

"Well, bring her along when you come. Me 'n' the little Doc will
settle."

"Dat's good yob for me, all right. Vot mak' you tank she'll come? Aye
ask her plenty tams, but she ant like me."

"You slip her this billy-ducks and she'll come."

Petersen pocketed the letter which Bill handed him; his eyes
brightened; the flush in his face deepened. "You bet your gum boots
Aye bring her. She's svell, ant she, Bill? She's yust some svell like
white voman."

"Who's this?" queried one of Petersen's companions.

"Ponatah. She's jung sqvaw. Aye got eyes on dat chicken long tam
now." The burly mail-man laughed loudly and slapped his friend on the
shoulder.

Mr. Hyde appeared to share in the general good nature. Carelessly,
smilingly he picked up Petersen's dog-whip, which lay coiled on the
bar; thoughtfully he weighed it. The lash was long, but the handle was
short and thick, and its butt was loaded with shot; it had much the
balance of a black-jack--a weapon not unknown to Mr. Hyde.

"Pretty soft for you mail-men." The former speaker grinned.

"Ja! Pretty soft. Aye bet Aye have good tam dis trip. Yust vait. You
don't know how purty is Ponatah. She--"

Petersen's listeners waited. They are waiting yet, for the mail-man
never completed his admiring recital of the Indian girl's charms,
owing to the fact that the genial Mr. Hyde without warning tapped his
late friend's round head with the leather butt of the dog-whip. Had
it not been for the Norseman's otter cap it is probable that a new
mail-carrier would have taken the St. Michaels run.

Petersen sat down upon his heels, and rested his forehead against the
cool brass foot-rail; the subsequent proceedings interested him n