l winter long he had been choosing the ride he would take
her. He had imagined a sunny afternoon, a hidden grove, a sheltering
cleft of rock, a running spring, and some words of his that should
conquer her at last and leave his lips upon hers. And with this
controlled fire pent up within him, he had counted the days, scratching
them off his calendar with a dig each night that once or twice snapped
the pen. Then, when the trail stood open, this meeting was deferred,
put off for indefinite days, or weeks; he could not tell how long.
So, gripping his pencil and tracing heavy words, he gave himself what
consolation he could by writing her.

The letter, duly stamped and addressed to Bear Creek, set forth upon
its travels; and these were devious and long. When it reached its
destination, it was some twenty days old. It had gone by private hand
at the outset, taken the stagecoach at a way point, become late in
that stagecoach, reached a point of transfer, and waited there for the
postmaster to begin, continue, end, and recover from a game of poker,
mingled with whiskey. Then it once more proceeded, was dropped at
the right way point, and carried by private hand to Bear Creek. The
experience of this letter, however, was not at all a remarkable one at
that time in Wyoming.

Molly Wood looked at the envelope. She had never before seen the
Virginian's handwriting She knew it instantly. She closed her door and
sat down to read it with a beating heart.

SUNK CREEK RANCH, May 5, 188-

My Dear Miss Wood: I am sorry about this. My plan was different. It was
to get over for a ride with you about now or sooner. This year Spring is
early. The snow is off the flats this side the range and where the
sun gets a chance to hit the earth strong all day it is green and has
flowers too, a good many. You can see them bob and mix together in the
wind. The quaking-asps down low on the South side are in small leaf and
will soon be twinkling like the flowers do now. I had planned to take a
look at this with you and that was a better plan than what I have got to
do. The water is high but I could have got over and as for the snow on
top of the mountain a man told me nobody could cross it for a week yet,
because he had just done it himself. Was not he a funny man? You ought
to see how the birds have streamed across the sky while Spring was
coming. But you have seen them on your side of the mountain. But I can't
come now Miss Wood. There is a lot for