In a narrow grave just six by three,
Where the wild coyotes will howl o’er me.
Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie."

"Ain’t there a love letter for me?" The young man who inquired seemed to
belong to a different race from these bronzed squires of the saddle. He
suggested over-crowded excursion boats on Sunday afternoons in swarming
Eastern cities. He buttonholed every one and explained his presence in the
West on the score of his health, as though leaving his native asphalt were
a thing that demanded apology.

"Yes," answered the postmistress, with a real motherly note, "here is one
from Hugous & Co."

A roar went up at this, and the blushing tenderfoot pocketed his third
bill for the most theatrical style of Mexican sombrero; it had a brass
snake coiled round the crown for a hat-band, and a cow-puncher in good and
regular standing would have preferred going bareheaded to wearing it.

"She seems to be pressing her suit, son; you better name the day," one of
the loungers suggested.

"The blamed thing ain’t worth twenty-five dollars," the young man from the
East declared. A conspicuous silence followed. It seemed to irritate the
owner of the hat that no one would defend it. "It ain’t worth it," he
repeated.

"I think you allowed you was out here for your health?" the big Texan, who
had returned from the corral, inquired.