bundle to the "Old Man" and was halfway to the stable when he was
called back peremptorily.

"Shorty! O-h-h, Shorty! Hi!"

Shorty kicked his steaming horse in the ribs and swung round in the
path, bringing up before the porch with a jerk.

"Where's this letter been?" demanded the Old Man, with some excitement.
James G. Whitmore, cattleman, would have been greatly surprised had
he known that his cowboys were in the habit of calling him the Old
Man behind his back. James G. Whitmore did not consider himself old,
though he was constrained to admit, after several hours in the saddle,
that rheumatism had searched him out--because of his fourteen years of
roughing it, he said. Also, there was a place on the crown of his head
where the hair was thin, and growing thinner every day of his life,
though he did not realize it. The thin spot showed now as he stood in
the path, waving a square envelope aloft before Shorty, who regarded it
with supreme indifference.

Not so Shorty's horse. He rolled his eyes till the whites showed,
snorted and backed away from the fluttering, white object.

"Doggone it, where's this been?" reiterated James G., accusingly.

"How the devil do I know?" retorted Shorty, forcing his horse nearer.
"In the office, most likely. I got it with the rest to-day."

"It's two weeks old," stormed the Old Man. "I never knew it to
fail--if a letter says anybody's coming, or you're to hurry up and