buffalo," he said to Le-Le in her native tongue. "You mistook his kindness for love. But never mind. You'll get over it."
Two days of steady travel through the solitudes brought Ashleigh to the lodgings of the post-trader, Joseph Ranger, alias Addicks.
"Your wife," John had written to his brother, "has come to visit us at the Ranch of the Whispering Firs, as my girls have named our donation claims, to hold which we have pooled our issues, and have filed upon them as individuals. My family are charmed with her. Do join us here at once. Take a donation claim near to one or more of ours. Forget bygones. And, best of all, go with me this winter, by the Isthmus route, to the dear old home. Do say yes, Joe, and we may all be happy yet."
"Halloa!" cried Ashleigh, as he alighted at the post.
"Well," cried Joseph Ranger, as he opened his canvas door; "it's Ashleigh. Come right in! You're the very man I wanted to see."
A savory odor of hot biscuits and frying ham greeted the nostrils of the benumbed and hungry wayfarer. This supper smells good, Mr. Addicks." Mr. Addicks *no more, if you please, Mr. Ashleigh. My name is Ranger,—Joseph Ranger. I have found myself, and I shall be known by my real name hereafter. But help yourself to pot-luck. And please excuse me. I have just begun to read a letter from the coast. The courier hasn't been gone five minutes."
After Ashleigh had finished his meal his host thrust the letter in his face and said, "What do you think of that?"
"What do you propose to do? "asked Ashleigh, after carefully considering the missive.
"Why, go to Oregon, of course. What else could a fellow do? But I don't know what in the dickens to do with my stuff."
