"What—Marcelina?" ventured Pecos, faintly.
"Naw—your mail!" cried Angy, scornfully, and dipping down into a cracker box he brought out a paper on the yellow wrapper of which was printed "Pecos Dalhart, Verde Crossing, Ariz."
"I never subscribed for no paper!" protested Pecos, turning it over suspiciously. "Here—I don't want it."
"Ump-umm," grunted Angy, smiling mysteriously, "take it along. All the boys git one. You can read it out in camp. Well, if you're goin' to be bull-headed about it I'll tell you. Crit subscribed for it for every man in Verde—only cost two-bits a year. Got to build up this mail route somehow, you know. It's called the Voice of Reason and it's against the capitalistic classes."
"The which?" inquired Pecos, patiently.
"Aw, against rich fellers—these sharks like Old Crit that's crushin' the life outer the common people. That's the paper I was showin' you—where they was advertisin' diamonds for a dollar forty-eight a piece."
"Oh," said Pecos, thrusting it into his chaps, "why didn't you say so before? Sure, I'll read it!"