--anything. She was a nice little thing, of course, with an
attractive feminine manner and an unexpected lot of nerve. He was sorry
for her, naturally, and would like to help her out of what he felt to be a
most disagreeable, if not hazardous situation. But as for anything
further--

Still frowning, he thrust the sheets back into the envelope and licked the
flap. He was on the point of stubbornly scrawling a man's name on the
outside when he realized how foolish he would be not to carry out his
first and much more sensible intention.

He wanted an excuse for asking permission to ride to town to post a
letter. This, in itself, was an extremely nervy request and under ordinary
conditions almost certain to be profanely refused. But Buck had a shrewd
notion that after the failure of Lynch's plans, the foreman might welcome
the chance of talking things over with his confederates without danger of
being observed or overheard. On the other hand, if there should be the
least suspicion that his letter was not of the most innocent and harmless
sort, he would never in the world be allowed to get away with it.

The result was that when he strolled out of the harness-room a little
later the envelope bearing the name of Sheriff Hardenberg reposed within
his shirt, while the other, addressed now to a mythical "Miss Florence
Denby," at an equally mythical street number in Dallas, Texas, protruded
from a pocket of his chaps.

"I don't s'pose you've got a stamp you'll sell me," he inquired of Lynch,
whom he found in the bunk-house with McCabe. "I'd like to get this letter
off as soon as I can."

Balancing the envelope in his hand, he held it so that the foreman could
easily read the address.

"I might have," returned Lynch briefly. "Looks like that letter was heavy
enough to need two."

Buck allowed him to weigh it in his hand for an instant, and then, in
simulated confusion, he snatched it back.

"Must be writin' to yore girl," grinned McCabe, who had also been
regarding the address curiously.

Stratton retorted in a convincingly embarrassed fashion, received his
stamps and then proffered his request, which was finally granted with an
air of reluctance and much grumbling.

"I wouldn't let yuh go, only I don't know what the devil's keepin' that
fool Bud," growled Lynch. "Yuh tell the son-of-a-gun I ain't expectin' him
to stop in town the rest of his natural life. If them wagon-bolts ain't
come, we'll have to do without 'em. Y