"Dear niece Carolyn June Dixon and Chaperon: Sorry, but there's an
epidemic of smallpox at the Quarter Circle KT and you can't come. Chuck
is dying with it. Old Heck's plumb prostrated, Bert is already broke
out, Pedro is starting to and Skinny Rawlins and the Ramblin' Kid are
just barely able to be up. I love you too much to want you to catch it.
Please go back to Hartville and give my regards to your pa and don't
expose yourself. Answer by return telegram so I'll know your intentions.
Affectionately and absolutely your Uncle Josiah Heck," Parker read after
writing a few moments. "How's that?"

"Sounds all right."

"Got it ready?" Chuck called from the fence, while Silver Tip, the
trim-built half-blood Hambletonian colt he was riding, reared and
pranced, eager for the road and a run.

"For lord's sake hurry up, Chuck," Old Heck yelled as the Ramblin' Kid
handed the paper to Chuck and the cowboy whirled his horse into a gallop
toward Eagle Butte. "Have the agent send it in care of whatever train
they might be on and get an answer, then come back as quick as possible
--waiting is agony!"

It was a long afternoon for Old Heck and the cowboys of the Quarter
Circle KT. A band of colts were in the circular corral to be gentled to
rope, saddle and hackamore. Old Heck sat on the top pole of the corral
and moodily watched the struggle of the men and horses in the dry, dusty
enclosure as one by one each young broncho was roped, saddled and
ridden. Frequently he turned longing eyes toward Eagle Butte, anxious
for sight of the cloud of dust from which Chuck would emerge bringing,