“Huh,” grunted Hardy suspiciously, “you better tell me first what you want.”
“Well, I want you to write me a letter,” blurted 365 out Creede. “I can keep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn the luck, when it comes to makin’ love on paper I’d rather wrastle a bear. Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done. Throw in a little po’try, will you, and––and––say, Rufe, for God’s sake, help me out on this!”
He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner’s shoulder, but the little man squirmed out from under it impatiently.
“Who is it?” he asked doggedly. “Sallie Winship?”
“Aw, say,” protested Creede, “don’t throw it into a feller like that––Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean––Kitty Bonnair.”
“Kitty Bonnair!” Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her name unspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to hear it, even from Jeff.
“What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?” he inquired, schooling his voice to a cold quietness.
“Tell her?” echoed Creede ecstatically. “W’y, tell her I’m lonely as hell now she’s gone––tell her––well, there’s where I bog down, but I’d trade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, and throw in the saddle for pelon. Now, say, Rufe, don’t leave me in a hole like this. You’ve made your winnin’, and here’s your nice long letter to Miss 366 Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and I can’t think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as much as you love Miss Lucy––mebbe more––and––and I wanter tell her so!”
He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face of his partner whose lips were drawn tight.
“We––every man has to––no, I can’t do it, Jeff,” he stammered, choking. “I’d––I’d help you if I could, Jeff––but she’d know my style. Yes, that’s it. If I’d write the letter she’d know it was from me––women are quick that way. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is––every man has to fight out his own battle, in love.”