The stage rolled on, past a
grove of live oaks hung with mistletoe. Cummins had passed this way many
times before. He had even gathered mistletoe here to send to friends in
the East. But to-day for the first time it made his heart yearn for the
love he had missed. Mary Francis was thirty-five now. Twenty-five years
ago he was twenty and she was a little bashful girl. Her father's house
had been the rendezvous of Californians on their occasional visits in
the East. His mind traveled back over old scenes; but soon the canon of
the South Yuba burst upon his vision, thrilling him with its grandeur
and challenging his fighting instincts. For after winding down three
miles to the river, the road climbed three miles up the opposite
side--three toiling miles through the ambushes of highwaymen. There was
the scene of many a hold-up. And to-day, at his age, he simply must not
be robbed. It would break his heart. In sheer desperation he drew his
six-shooter, examined it carefully, glanced at his fellow-passengers and
sat silent, alert and grim.
Except for the Chinaman, the passengers were feeble folk. At sight of
the revolver the men began to fidget; and, except for Mamie Slocum, the
romantic, the women turned pale.
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