“Hmm,” said Hank, “who’d be writing to me? Miss Valeria’s home, and Burch.”
Drawing up, Crosby handed him the envelope and waited to share any interest that might be in its contents.
Pearsall turned the letter over curiously a time or two.
“Looks like I ought to know that there handwriting,” he meditated, scratching one ear reflectively. “Now, who in time is it makes them kind of tails to the—? Hm-mm. El Capitan,” he squinted at the postmark. “Huh—El Capitan. Well, I don’t know as—”
“Why don’t you open it?” suggested Hilda, and Crosby winked at her and added:
“Yes, rip ’er up and have a look at the inside.”
Without further ado, Hank inserted his thumb and “ripped her up.” Carefully he drew forth and unfolded a soiled, dog-eared sheet of paper and stood studying it for some moments in silence, Hilda watching, Slew shifting from one foot to the other. Gradually the manager’s face changed, losing its anxious lines, taking on a half-surprised, half-incredulous expression. He looked out again over the green levels.
“Lord! Lord!” he whispered. “Why, this almost scares me.”
“What, Uncle Hank? What?” demanded Hilda, and the patient Crosby thanked her with a glance.
“All right, Pettie. Ye see, Slew, this here’s from my old pardner, Tracey Jacox, that I used to run cattle with down yonder on the Pecos. He—Trace, he’s had some difficulty there at Capitan. He’s wrote for me to come and get his bunch of cattle and keep ’em—that is, till he—”