Part 20

“What are you doing now?” said the young man briskly.

“Nothing,” said Jeff simply.

“Oh, I see--going home!”

Home! the word stung sharply through Jeff's benumbed consciousness.

“No,” he stammered, “that is--”

“Look here, Jeff,” broke in the young man, “I've got a chance for you that don't fall in a man's way every day. Wells, Fargo & Co.'s treasure messenger from Robinson's Ferry to Mempheys has slipped out. The place is vacant. I reckon I can get it for you.”

“When?”

“Now--to-night.”

“I'm ready.”

“Come, then.”

In ten minutes they were in the company's office, where its manager, a man famous in those days for his boldness and shrewdness, still lingered in the dispatch of business.

The young clerk briefly but deferentially stated certain facts. A few questions and answers followed, of which Jeff heard only the words “Tuolumne” and “Yuba Bill.”

“Sit down, Mr. Briggs. Good-night, Roberts.”

The young clerk, with an encouraging smile at Jeff, bowed himself out as the manager seated himself at his desk and began to write.

“You know the country pretty well between the Fork and the Summit, Mr. Briggs?” he said, without looking up.

“I lived there,” said Jeff.

“That was some months ago, wasn't it?”

“Six months,” said Jeff, with a sigh.

“It's changed for the worse since your house was shut up. There's a long stretch of unsettled country infested by bad characters.”

Jeff sat silent. “Briggs.”

“Sir?”

“The last man but one who preceded you was shot by road agents.” *

* Highway robbers.

“Yes, sir.”

“We lost sixty thousand dollars up there.”

“Yes?”

“Your father was Briggs of Tuolumne?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeff's head dropped, but, glancing shyly up, he saw a pleasant smile on his questioner's face. He was still writing rapidly, but was apparently enjoying at the same time some pleasant recollection.