Jim Healy was along, and he'll tell you the same story."
There was a breathless silence, during which McNeil spat meditatively
out of the window.
"Save any--eh--locks of their hair?" he questioned, anxiously.
"Oh, please don't tell me anything about that!" interrupted Miss
Spencer, nervously. "The whites don't scalp, do they?"
"Not generally, miss, but I--eh--didn't just know what Mr.
Moffat's--eh--custom was."
The latter gentleman had his head craned out of the window once more,
in an apparent determination to ignore all such frivolous remarks.
Suddenly he pointed directly ahead.
"There's Glencaid now, Miss Spencer," he said, cheerfully, glad enough
of an opportunity to change the topic of conversation. "That's the
spire of the new Presbyterian church sticking up above the ridge."
"Oh, indeed! How glad I am to be here safe at last!"
"How--eh--did you happen to--eh--recognize the church?" asked McNeil
with evident admiration. "You--eh--can't see it from the saloon."
Moffat disdained reply, and the lurching stage rolled rapidly down the
valley, the mules now lashed into a wild gallop to the noisy
accompaniment of the driver's whip.
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