a proposal by proxy.

day by day hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad.

soon after wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling.

hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. in the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. as this is unusual with the ex-ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate.

not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does walt say a word. and then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat.

sitting down upon it, and making sign to hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself.

“frank,” says he, “i’ve brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o’ talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid’able.”

“what subject, walt?”

“wal, it’s about a wumman.”

“a woman! why, walt wilder, i should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this.”

“true it shed, as ye say. for all that, ef this chile don’t misunnerstan’ the sign, a wumman ain’t the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an’ place.”

the significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. he stammers out an evasive rejoinder,—

“well, walt; you wish to have a talk with me. i’m ready to hear what you have to say. go on! i’m listening.”

“wal, frank, i’m in a sort o’ a quandary wi’ a critter as wears pettikotes, an’ i want a word o’ advice from ye. you’re more practised in thar ways than me. though a good score o’ year older than yurself, i hain’t hed much to do wi’ weemen, ’ceptin’ injun squaws an’ now an’ agin a yeller gurl down by san antone. but them scrapes wan’t nothin’ like thet walt wilder heve got inter now.”

“a scrape! what sort of a scrape? i hope you haven’t—”

“ye needn’t talk o’ hope, frank hamersley. the thing air past hopin’, an’ past prayin’ for. ef this chile know anythin’ o’ the signs o’ love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o’ takin’ the backtrack.”

“on that trail, indeed?”

“thet same; whar cyubit sots his little feet, ’ithout neer a moccasin on ’em. yis, kummerade, walt wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an’ thet difeequelty air bein’ fool enuf to fall in love—the which he hez dun, sure, sartin.”

hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. walt wilder in love! with whom can it be? as he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her.

only for an instant, however. the idea of having the rough ranger for a rival is preposterous. walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations.

“beyond a doubt, she’s been an’ goed an’ dud it—that air garl concheeter. them shining eyes o’ her’n hev shot clar through this chile’s huntin’ shirt, till thar’s no peace left inside o’ it. i hain’t slep a soun’ wink for mor’en a week o’ nights; all the time dreemin’ o’ the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin’ ’bout my head. now, frank, what am i ter do? that’s why i’ve axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation.”

“well, walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. as to what you should do, that’s clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what miss conchita says. have you spoken to her upon the subject?”

“thar hain’t yit been much talk atween us—i’deed not any, i mout say. ye know i can’t parley thar lingo. but i’ve approached her wi’ as much skill as i iver did bear or buffler. an’, if signs signerfy anythin’, she ain’t bad skeeart about it. contrarywise, frank. if i ain’t terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she’d be powerful willin’ to hev me.”

“if she be so disposed there can’t be much difficulty in the matter. you mean to marry her, i presume?”

“in coorse i duz—that for sartin’. the feelin’s i hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for injun squaws, or the queeries i’ve danced wi’ in the fandangoes o’ san antone. ef she’ll agree to be myen, i meen nothin’ short o’ the hon’rable saramony o’ marridge—same as atween man an’ wife. what do ye think o’t?”

“i think, walt, you might do worse than get married. you’re old enough to become a benedict, and conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. i’ve heard it said that these mexican women make the best of wives—when married to americans.”

hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him.

“there are several things,” he continues, “that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you’re aiming at. first, you must get the girl’s consent: and, i should think, also that of her master and mistress. they are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. last of all, you’ll require the sanction of the church. this, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. to make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the staked plain.”

“durn both sorts!” exclaims the ex-ranger in a tone of chagrin. “ef’t warn’t for the need o’ ’em jest now, i say the staked plain air better ’ithout ’em, as wu’d anywars else. why can’t she an’ me be tied thegither ’ithout any sech senseless saramony? walt wilder wants no mumblin’ o’ prayers at splicin’ him to the gurl he’s choosed for his partner. an’ why shed thar be, supposin’ we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?”

“true. but that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife.”

“doggone the lawfulness or legullity o’ it! priest or no priest, i want concheteter for my squaw; an’ i’ve made up my mind to hev her. say, frank! don’t ye think the old doc ked do it? he air a sort o’ professional.”

“no, no; the doctor would be of no use in that capacity. it’s his business to unite broken bones, not hands and hearts. but, walt, if you are really resolved on the thing, there will, no doubt, be an opportunity to carry out your intention in a correct and legitimate manner. you must be patient, however, and wait till you come across either a priest or a protestant clergyman.”

“doggoned ef i care which,” is the rejoinder of the giant. “eyther’ll do; an’ one o’ ’em ’ud be more nor surficient, ef ’t war left ter walt wilder. but, hark’ee, frank!” he continues, his face assuming an astute expression, “i’d like to be sure ’bout the thing now—that is, to get the gurl’s way o’ thinking on ’t. fact is, i’ve made up my mind to be sure, so as thar may be no slips or back kicks.”

“sure, how?”

“by procurin’ her promise; getting betrothed, as they call it.”

“there can be no harm in that. certainly not.”

“wal, i’m gled you think so; for i’ve sot my traps for the thing, an’ baited ’em too. thet air’s part o’ my reezun for askin’ ye out hyar. she’s gin me the promise o’ a meetin’ ’mong these cotton woods, an’ may kum at any minnit. soon’s she does, i’m agoin’ to perpose to her; an’ i want to do it in reg’lar, straightforrard way. as i can’t palaver spanish, an’ you kin, i know’d ye wudn’t mind transleetin’ atween us. ye won’t, will ye?”

“i shall do that with the greatest pleasure, if you wish it. but don’t you think, walt, you might learn what you want to know without any interpreter? conchita may not like my interference in an affair of such a delicate nature. love’s language is said to be universal, and by it you should understand one another.”

“so fur’s thet’s consarned, i reck’n we do. but she, bein’ a mexikin, may hev queery ideas about it; an’ i want her promise guv in tarms from which thar’ll be no takin’ the back track; same’s i meen to give myen.”

“all right, old fellow. i’ll see you get such a promise, or none.”

“thet’s satisfactory, frank. now, as this chile air agoin’ to put the thing stiff an’ strong, do you transleet it in the same sort.”

“trust me, it shall be done—verbatim et literatim.”

“thet’s the way!” joyfully exclaims walt; thinking that the verbatim et literatim—of the meaning of which he has not the slightest conception—will be just the thing to clinch his bargain with conchita.

the singular contract between the prairie merchant and his ci-devant guide has just reached conclusion as a rustling is heard among the branches of the cottonwoods, accompanied by a soft footstep.

looking around, they see conchita threading her way through the grove. her steps, cautious and stealthy, would tell of an “appointment,” even were this not already known to them. her whole bearing is that of one on the way to meet a lover; and the sight of walt wilder, who now rises erect to receive her, proclaims him to be the man.

it might appear strange that she does not shy back, on seeing him in company with another man. she neither starts nor shows any shyness; evidence that the presence of the third party is a thing understood and pre-arranged.

she advances without show of timidity; and, curtseying to the “señor francisco,” as she styles hamersley, takes seat upon the log from which he has arisen; walt laying hold of her hand and gallantly conducting her to it.

there is a short interregnum of silence. this conchita’s sweetheart endeavours to fill up with a series of gestures that might appear uncouth but for the solemnity of the occasion. so considered, they may be deemed graceful, even dignified.

perhaps not thinking them so himself, walt soon seeks relief by turning to his interpreter, and making appeal to him as follows—

“doggone it, frank! ye see i don’t know how to talk to her, so you do the palaverin. tell her right off, what i want. say i hain’t got much money, but a pair o’ arems strong enuf to purtect her, thro’ thick an’ thro’ thin, agin the dangers o’ the mountain an’ the puraira, grizzly bars, injuns, an’ all. she sees this chile hev got a big body; ye kin say to her thet his heart ain’t no great ways out o’ correspondence wi’ his karkidge. then tell her in the eend, thet his body an’ his hands an’ heart—all air offered to her; an’ if she’ll except ’em they shall be hern, now, evermore, an’ to the death—so help me god!”

as the hunter completes his proposal thus ludicrously, though emphatically pronounced, he brings his huge hand down upon his brawny breast with a slap like the crack of a cricket bat.

whatever meaning the girl may make out of his words, she can have had no doubt about their earnestness or sincerity, judging by the gestures that accompany them.

hamersley can scarce restrain his inclination to laugh; but with an effort he subdues it, and faithfully, though not very literally, translates the proposal into spanish.

when, as walt supposes, he has finished, the ex-ranger rises to his feet and stands awaiting the answer, his huge frame trembling like the leaf of an aspen. he continues to shake all the while conchita’s response is being delivered; though her first words would assure, and set his nerves at rest, could he but understand them. but he knows not his fate, till it has passed through the tedious transference from one language to another—from spanish to his own native tongue.

“tell him,” is the response of conchita, given without sign of insincerity, “tell him that i love him as much as he can me. that i loved him from the first moment of our meeting, and shall love him to the end of my life. in reply to his honourable proposal, say to him yes. i am willing to become his wife.”

when the answer is translated to walt, he bounds at least three feet into the air, with a shout of triumph such as he might give over the fall of an indian foe.

then, advancing towards the girl, he flings his great arms around her, lifts her from the ground as if she were a child’s doll; presses her to his broad, throbbing breast, and imprints a kiss upon her lips—the concussion of which can be heard far beyond the borders of the cottonwood copse.