the endless wire-pulling in the manipulation of these most picturesque
marionettes—until one remembered the outlaw brother and felt that what she
did she did for him.

"You right shore there ain’t a letter for me, Miss Judith. My creditors
are pretty faithful ’bout bearing me in mind." It was the third time that
the big, shambling Texan who had been one of the company at Mrs. Clark’s
eating-house had inquired for mail, and seemed so embarrassed by his own
bulk that he moved cautiously, as if he might step on a fellow-creature
and maim him. Each time he had asked for a letter he took his place at the
end of the waiting-line and patiently bided his time for the chance of an
extra word with the postmistress.

"They’ve begun to lose hope, Texas."

She shuffled the letters impartially, as a goddess dispensing fate, and
barely glanced at the man who had ridden a hundred and fifty miles across
sand and cactus to see her.

"That’s the difference between them and me." There was a grim finality in
his tone.

"What, you’re going to take your place at the end of that line again! I’ll
try and find you a circular."

He tried to look at her angrily, but she smiled at him with such
good-fellowship that he went off singing significantly that universal
anthem of the cow-puncher the West over:

"Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie,