et the other day, and he
seemed very much pleased to hear how well you were getting along.

Hardy put the letter down and sighed.

"Now there's a thoroughly nice girl," he said. "I wonder why she
doesn't get married." Then, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, he
began to write, describing the beauty of the country; the noble
qualities of his horse, Chapuli, the Grasshopper; the march of the
vast army of sheep; Creede, Tommy, and whatnot, with all the pent-up
enthusiasm of a year's loneliness. When it was ended he looked at the
letter with a smile, wondering whether to send it by freight or
express. Six cents in stamps was the final solution of the problem,
and as his pocketbook contained only four he stuck them on and awaited
his partner's return.

"Say, Jeff," he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, "have you
got any stamps?"

"Any which?" inquired Creede suspiciously.

"Any postage stamps--to put on letters."

"Huh!" exclaimed Creede. "You must think I've got a girl--or important
business in the States. No, I'll tell you. The only stamp I've got is
in a glass frame, hung up on the wall--picture of George Washington,
you know. Haven't you never seen it? W'y, it's right there in the
parler--jest above the pianney--and a jim-dandy piece of steel
engraving she is, too." He grinned broadly as he concluded this
running fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end.

"Well," he said, "I guess I'll go down to Moroni in the morning,
then."

"What ye goin' down there for?" demanded Creede incredulously.

"Why, to buy a stamp, of course," replied Hardy, "it's only forty
miles, isn't it?" And early in the morning, true to his word, he
saddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river.

From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in a
dubious smile.

"There's something funny goin' on here, ladies," he observed sagely,
"something funny--and I'm dogged if I savvy what it is." He stooped
and scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. "Well, Tom, Old Socks," he
said, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters,
"you've got a pretty good nose, how about it, now--can you smell a
rat?" But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride forty
miles in order to buy a stamp.

CHAPTER IX

MORONI

The Mormon settlement of Moroni proved to belong to that large class
of Western "cities" known as "string-towns"--a long line of stores on
either side of a main street