nd north.

Upon the third morning after his return to the range Thornton rose
early, scowled sleepily at the little alarm clock whose strident clamour
had startled him out of his sleep at four o'clock, kicked off his
pajamas and with towel in hand started down to the river for his morning
plunge. Subconsciously he noted a scrap of white paper lying upon the
hewn log which served as doorstep, but he paid no heed to it. He had his
dip, diving from the big rock from which most mornings of the year he
dived into the deepest part of the stream; and in a little came back
through the brightening daylight rosy and tingling and with the last
webs of sleep washed out of his brain. Again he noted the paper; this
time he stooped and caught it up. For now he saw that it was folded,
carefully placed where he must see it, pinned down with a sharp pointed
horseshoe nail.

"Now who's sending me letters this way?" he demanded of himself.

And he flushed a little and called himself a fool because he knew that
he half expected to find that it was a note from a certain girl with
unforgettable grey eyes. But before he had read the few words, as soon
in fact as his eyes had fallen upon the uneven, laboriously constructed
letters of the lead-pencilled scrawl, he knew that this did not come
from her hand. The signature puzzled him; it consisted of two letters,
initials evidently, a very large j, not capitalized, followed by a very
small capital C.

"Now, who's J.C.?" he muttered. "I can call to mind no J.C. who would be
writing me letters!"

As he read the note a look of astonishment came into his eyes. It ran:

"Deer buck, I am shure up against hard luck. Dont know nobody but you
can give me a hand remember that time down in El paso I was yore freind.
Come to old shack by Poison hole tonight & dont tell nobody & bring sum
grub Buck remember El paso.

"j.c.

"p.s. I was yore freind buck."

Thornton remembered. He went slowly about his dressing, turning again
and again to look at the note he had placed upon his little pine table.
That had been five years ago. He was riding between Juarez and El Paso,
having just sold a herd of steers from the range he had owned in Texas
then. He had been detained in the Mexican town until after dark, and
before its lights had ceased winking behind him he had known that though
his precaution of taking a check instead of gold had saved his money to
him it had not saved him from coming very close to deat