"
Before leaving town, we visited our gunmaker, with the intention of
ordering some cartridges. By the merest chance, he spoke of Johnson.
"A Britisher was in here yesterday: somethin' o' the cut o' you boys."
"In a grey suit with a brown sombrero?"
"Sure enough."
"Did he buy cartridges?"
"He bought a six-shooter and a few cartridges."
"Oh!" said Ajax.
We found ourselves walking towards a secluded lot at the back of the
Old Mission Church. Ajax asked me for an opinion which I was too dazed
to express.
"We've done a silly thing, and perhaps a wicked thing," said my
brother. "If that poor devil is lying dead in the brush-hills, I shall
never forgive myself. We've given a starving man too heavy a meal."
"Bosh!" said I, believing every word he uttered--the echo, indeed, of
my own thoughts. "I feel in my bones we are going to see Johnson
again."
Twenty-four hours later we heard of him. The Santa Barbara stage had
been held up by one man. It happened, however, that a remarkably bold
and fearless driver was on the box. The stage had been stopped upon
the top of a hill, but not exactly on the crest of it.
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