Beth Norvell did not remember ever having fainted in her life, yet for
a moment after these words reached her, all around grew dark, and she
was compelled to grasp the counter to keep from falling. The strain of
the long night, coupled with such unexpected news proving she had
arrived too late with her warning, served to daze her brain, to leave
her utterly unable either to think or plan. The clerk, alarmed by the
sudden pallor of her face, was at her side instantly, holding eagerly
forth that panacea for all fleshly ills in the West, a bottle of
whiskey.
"Good Lord, Miss, don't faint away!" he cried excitedly. "Here, just
take a swig of this; there 's plenty of water in it, and it's the stuff
to pull you through. There, that's better. Great Scott, but I sure
thought you was goin' to flop over that time." He assisted her to a
convenient chair, then stepped back, gazing curiously into her face,
the black bottle still in his hand. "What's the trouble, anyhow?" he
questioned, his mind filled with sudden suspicion. "That--that fellow
did n't throw you, did he?"
Miss Norvell, her fingers clasping the chair arm for support, rose
hurriedly to her feet, a red flush sweeping into her pallid cheeks.
For an instant her intense indignation held her speechless.
"'Throw' me? What is it you mean?" she exclaimed, her voice faltering.
"Do you rank me with those shameless creatures out yonder? It is for
Mr. Winston's sake I sought word with him; it has nothing whatever to
do with myself. I chanced to learn news of the utmost importance, news
which he must possess before morning; yet it is not a message I can
trust to any one else. My God! what can I do?" She paused irresolute,
her hands pressing her temples. The boy, his interest aroused, took a
step forward.
"Can I be of service?"
"Oh, I hardly know; I scarcely seem able to think. Could--could you
leave here for just ten minutes--long enough to go to the dance hall at
the Gayety?"
"Sure thing; there 's nothin' doin'."
"Then please go; find a big, red-headed miner there named
Brown--'Stutter' Brown they call him--and bring him back here to me.
If--if he is n't there any longer, then get Mercedes, the Mexican
dancer. You know her, don't you?"
The clerk nodded, reaching for his hat.
"Get one of those two; oh, you must get one of them. Tell them I say
it is most important."
There was a terrible earnestness about the girl's words and manner,
which instantly impressed the lad with the necessity for immediate
haste. He was off at a run, slamming the door heavily behind him, and
plunging headlong into the black street. As he disappeared, Miss
Norvell sank back into the vacated chair, and sat there breathing
heavily, her eyes fastened upon the drunken man opposite, her natural
coolness and resource slowly emerging from out the haze of
disappointment. Brown could surely be trusted in this emergency, for
his interest was only second to her own. But why had she not told him
the entire story before? Why, when she had opportunity, did she fail
to reveal to him Farnham's threats, and warn him against impending
danger? She realized fully now the possible injury wrought by her
secrecy. She felt far too nervous, too intensely anxious, to remain
long quiet; her eyes caught the ticking timepiece hanging above the
clerk's desk, and noted the hour with a start of surprise. It was
already after two. Once, twice, thrice she paced across the floor of
the office and stood for a moment striving to peer through the dirty
window-glass into the blackness without, faintly splotched with gleams
of yellow light. Finally, she flung back the door and ventured forth
upon the shadowed porch, standing behind the low railing, where those
passing below were little likely to notice her presence. Her head
throbbed and ached, and she loosened her heavy hair, pressing her palms
to the temples. The boy returned at last hurriedly, bare-headed, but
unaccompanied, and she met him at the top of the steps, realizing, even
before he spoke, that those she sought had not been found.