sack opened like a cocoon under Hondo's knife. It
contained but a handful of mail. Fritz had been fuming with terror
and excitement until this sack was reached. He now remembered Lena's
letter. He addressed the leader of the band, asking that that
particular missive be spared.

"Much obliged, Dutch," he said to the disturbed carrier. "I guess
that's the letter we want. Got spondulicks in it, ain't it? Here she
is. Make a light, boys."

Hondo found and tore open the letter to Mrs. Hildesmuller. The others
stood about, lighting twisted up letters one from another. Hondo gazed
with mute disapproval at the single sheet of paper covered with the
angular German script.

"Whatever is this you've humbugged us with, Dutchy? You call this here
a valuable letter? That's a mighty low-down trick to play on your
friends what come along to help you distribute your mail."

"That's Chiny writin'," said Sandy Grundy, peering over Hondo's
shoulder.

"You're off your kazip," declared another of the gang, an effective
youth, covered with silk handkerchiefs and nickel plating. "That's
shorthand. I see 'em do it once in court."

"Ach, no, no, no--dot is German," said Fritz. "It is no more as a
little girl writing a letter to her mamma. One poor little girl,
sick and vorking hard avay from home. Ach! it is a shame. Good Mr.
Robberman, you vill please let me have dot letter?"

"What the devil do you take us for, old Pretzels?" said Hondo with
sudden and surprising severity. "You ain't presumin' to insinuate
that we gents ain't possessed of sufficient politeness for to take an
interest in the miss's health, are you? Now, you go on, and you read
that scratchin' out loud and in plain United States language to this
here company of educated society."

Hondo twirled his six-shooter by its trigger guard and stood towering
above the little German, who at once began to read the letter,
translating the simple words into English. The gang of rovers stood
in absolute silence, listening intently.

"How old is that kid?" asked Hondo when the letter was done.

"Eleven," said Fritz.

"And where is she at?"

"At dose rock quarries--working. Ach, mein Gott--little Lena, she
speak of drowning. I do not know if she vill do it, but if she shall
I schwear I vill dot Peter Hildesmuller shoot mit a gun."

"You Dutchers," said Hondo Bill, his voice swelling with fine
contempt, "make me plenty tired. Hirin' out your kids to work when
they ought to be p