, he decided, was the mildest interpretation a keen observer would
be apt to make of Hen's behavior.

When he went out, Hen was at his heels, trying to say something in his
futile, tongue-tied gobble. Bud stopped and looked at him tolerantly.
"Hen, It's no use--you might as well be talking Chinese, for all I
know. If it's important, write it down or I'll never know what's on your
mind."

He pulled a note-book and a pencil from his vest-pocket and gave them
to Hen, who looked at him dumbly, worked his Adam's apple violently and
retreated to his horse, fumbled the mail which was tied in the bottom of
a flour sack for safe keeping, sought a sheltered place where he could
sit down, remained there a few minutes, and then returned to his horse
He beckoned to Bud, who was watching him curiously; and when Bud went
over to him said something unintelligible and handed back the note-book,
motioning for caution when Bud would have opened the book at once.

So Bud thanked him gravely, but with a twinkle in his eyes, and waited
until Hen had gone and he was alone before he read the message. It was
mysterious enough, certainly. Hen had written in a fine, cramped, uneven
hand:

"You bee carful. bern this up and dent let on like you no anything but
i warn you be shure bern this up."

Bud tore out the page and burned it as requested, and since he was not
enlightened by the warning he obeyed Hen's instructions and did not "let
on." But he could not help wondering, and was unconsciously prepared to
observe little things which ordinarily would have passed unnoticed.

At the dance on Friday night, for instance, there was a good deal of
drinking and mighty little hilarity. Bud had been accustomed to loud
talk and much horseplay outside among the men on such occasions, and
even a fight or two would be accepted as a matter of course. But though
several quart bottles were passed around during the night and thrown
away empty into the bushes, the men went in and danced and came out
again immediately to converse confidentially in small groups, or to
smoke without much speech. The men of Burroback Valley were not running
true to form.

The women were much like all the women of cow-country: mothers with
small children who early became cross and sleepy and were hushed under
shawls on the most convenient bed, a piece of cake in their hands;
mothers whose faces were lined too soon with work and ill-health, and
with untidy hair that became untidi