Me Smith

that which he so much desired. The picture of the ranch-house with the white curtains at the windows became more and more attractive to him as he dwelt upon it. He looked upon it as a certainty, one which could not be too quickly realized to please him. Then, too, the atmosphere of the MacDonald ranch had grown distasteful to him. With that sudden revulsion of feeling which was characteristic, he had grown tired of the place, he wanted a change, to be on the move again; but, of more importance than these things, he sensed hostility in the air. There was something significant in the absence of the Indians at the ranch. There was an ominous quiet hanging over the place that chilled him. He had a feeling that he was being followed, without being able to detect so much as a shadow. He felt as if the world were full of eyes—glued upon him. Sudden sounds startled him, and he had found himself peering into dark stable corners and stooping to look where the shadows lay black in the thick creek-brush.
    He told himself that the trip through the Bad Lands had unnerved him, but the explanation was not satisfying. Through it all, he had an underlying feeling that something was wrong; yet he had no thought of altering his plans. He wanted money, and he wanted Dora. The combination was sufficient to nerve him to take chances.
    Tubbs was waiting in the gulch. Smith looked at the spot where White Antelope’s body had lain, and reflected that it was curious how long the black stain of blood would stay on sand and gravel. He had been lucky to get out of that scrape so easily, he told himself as he rode by.
    “I guess you know what you’re up against, feller,” he said bluntly, as he and Tubbs met.
    “I inclines to the opinion that it’s a little cattle deal,” Tubbs replied facetiously.
    “You inclines right. Now, here’s our play—listen. The Bar C outfit is workin’ up in the mountains, so they won’t interfere with us none, and about three or three and a half days’ drive from here there’s some fellers what’ll take ’em off our hands. We gets our wad and divvies.”
    “What for a hand do I take?”
    “By rights, maybe, we ought to do our work at night, but I’ve rode over the country, and it looks safe enough to drive ’em into the gulch to-day. They isn’t a human in sight, and if one shows up, I reckon you know what to do.”
    “It sounds easy enough, if it works,” said Tubbs dubiously.
    “If it works? Feller, if you’ve got a yeller streak, you better quit right here.”
    “I merely means,” Tubbs hastened to explain, “that it sounds so easy that it makes me sore we wasn’t doin’ it before.”
    The reply appeared to pacify Smith.
    “I hates to fool with cattle,” he admitted, “’specially these here Texas brutes that spread out, leavin’ tracks all over the flat, and they can’t make time just off green grass. Gimme horses—but horses ain’t safe right now, with the Injuns riled up. Now, you start out and gather up what you can, and hold ’em here till I get back. I’ll go to the ranch and get a little grub together and get here as quick as it’s safe.”
    Smith galloped back to the ranch, to learn that Dora had ridden to the Agency to spend the day. He was keenly disappointed that he had missed the opportunity of saying good-by. She had chided him before for not telling her of his contemplated absence, and he had promised not to neglect to do so again; for she was in the habit of arranging the table for her night-school and waiting until he came. Then it occurred to Smith that he might write. He was delighted with the idea, and undoubtedly Dora would be equally delighted to receive a letter from him. It would show her that he remembered his promise, and also give her a chance to note his progress. Since Smith had learned that a capital letter is used to designate the personal pronoun, and that a period is placed at such points as one’s breath gives out, he had begun to think himself something of a scholar.
    His enthusiasm grew as he thought of it, and he decided that while he was about it he would write a genuine love-letter.
    Borrowing paper, an erratic pen, and ink pale from frequent watering, from a shelf in the living-room, he repaired to the dining-room table and gave himself up to the throes of composition.
    Bearing in mind that the superlative of dear is dearest, he wrote:
    Dearest Girl .
    I have got to go away on bizness. I had ought to hav said good-by but I cant wate