e ceased to wonder at even the
devotion of Leander. And since they were to her, on her own confession,
but "spurs and sombreros," one wondered at the elaboration of the comedy,
the endless wire-pulling in the manipulation of these most picturesque
marionettes--until one remembered the outlaw brother and felt that what she
did she did for him.

"You right shore there ain't a letter for me, Miss Judith. My creditors
are pretty faithful 'bout bearing me in mind." It was the third time that
the big, shambling Texan who had been one of the company at Mrs. Clark's
eating-house had inquired for mail, and seemed so embarrassed by his own
bulk that he moved cautiously, as if he might step on a fellow-creature
and maim him. Each time he had asked for a letter he took his place at the
end of the waiting-line and patiently bided his time for the chance of an
extra word with the postmistress.

"They've begun to lose hope, Texas."

She shuffled the letters impartially, as a goddess dispensing fate, and
barely glanced at the man who had ridden a hundred and fifty miles across
sand and cactus to see her.

"That's the difference between them and me." There was a grim finality in
his tone.

"What, you're going to take your place at the end of that line again! I'll
try and find you a circular."

He tried to look at her angrily, but she smiled at him with such
good-fellowship that he went off singing significantly that universal
anthem of the cow-puncher the West over:

"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie,
In a narrow grave just six by three,
Where the wild coyotes will howl o'er me.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie."

"Ain't there a love letter for me?" The young man who inquired seemed to
belong to a different race from these bronzed squires of the saddle. He
suggested over-crowded excursion boats on Sunday afternoons in swarming
Eastern cities. He buttonholed every one and explained his presence in the
West on the score of his health, as though leaving his native asphalt were
a thing that demanded apology.

"Yes," answered the postmistress, with a real motherly note, "here is one
from Hugous & Co."

A roar went up at this, and the blushing tenderfoot pocketed his third
bill for the most theatrical style of Mexican sombrero; it had a brass
snake coiled round the crown for a hat-band, and a cow-puncher in good and
regular standing would have preferred going bareheaded to wearing it.

"She seems to be pressin