“All right; come on.”
Mart found the sheriff smoking in the commissary tent of the first camp out of Stlingbloke. He handed the pasteboard cover to him and explained how it had come into the possession of the searching party in the mountains.
“There’s some funny writin’ in it,” he began.
But before he could get any farther his sister called to him sharply from outside, and he remembered his promise and reluctantly turned away and joined her.
They set their ponies’ faces in a bee line for Squawtooth and galloped away into the night.
It was ten o’clock next morning when Manzanita rode to see Wing o’ the Crow again. Mart had resentfully returned to the mountains early that morning, ordered to do so by his father. The black-haired girl looked up with a question in her large, luminous eyes as Manzanita reached her in the borrow pit.
“I got it!” triumphantly announced the cowgirl, alighting from her saddle.
Wing o’ the Crow took the pasteboard cover. “Is that all it was?”
“Look inside.”