without
result. He was the knottiest puzzle that ever hit Cross Canon. At
first he was suspected of religious scruples and nicknamed "Circuit
Rider." But presently it became apparent that he owned ability and
will to curse a fighting outlaw bronco till the burning desert air felt
chill, and it became plain he feared God as little as man. Mat had
joined the outfit in the Autumn, when for several weeks it was on the
jump; first gathering and shipping beeves, then branding calves, lastly
moving the herd down to its Winter range on the San Juan. Throughout
this period Cross Canon's puzzle remained hopeless; but the very first
evening after the outfit went into Winter quarters at the home ranch,
the puzzle was solved.

Ranch mails were always small, no matter how infrequent their coming or
how large the outfit. The owner's business involved little
correspondence, the boys' sentiments inspired less. Few with close
home-ties exiled themselves on the range. Many were "on the scout"
from the scene of some remote shooting scrape and known by no other
than a nickname. For most of them such was the rarity of letters that
often have I seen a cowboy turning and studying an unopened envelope
for a half-day or more, wondering whoever it was from and guessing
whatever its contents could be. Thus it was one of the great
sensations of the season for McTigh and his red-sashers, when the ranch
cook produced five letters for Circuit Rider, all addressed in the same
neat feminine hand, all bearing the same post mark. And when, while
the rest were washing for supper, disposing of war sacks, or "making
down" blankets, Mat squatted in the chimney corner to read his letters,
Lee Skeats impressively whispered to Priest:

"Ben, I jest nachally hope never to cock another gun ef that thar
little ol' Circuit hain't got a gal that's stuck to him tighter'n a
tick makin' a gotch ear, or that ain't got airy damn thing to do to hum
but write letters. Size o' them five he's got must 'a kept her settin'
up nights to make 'em ever since Circuit jumped the hum reservation.
Did you _ever_ hear of a feller gettin' five letters from a gal to
wonst?"

"I shore never did," answered Ben; "Circuit must 'a been 'prentice to
some big Medicine Man back among his tribe and have a bagful o' hoodoos
hid out somewhere. He ain't so damn hijus to look at, but he shore
never knocked no gal plum loco that away with his p'rsn'l beauty. Must
be some sort o' Inj