Jody Weir rode over to Johnny.
“Old citizen,” he said, “the rod tells me you are for Engle, and if I wanted to send letters I might go write ’em. But I beat him to it. Letter to my girl all written and ready. All I had to do was to put in a line with my little old pencil, telling her we’d work the herd to-morrow and start home next day. She’ll be one pleased girl; she sure does love her little Jody.”
Johnny knotted his brows in puzzlement. “But who reads your letters to her?” he said wonderingly.
“Now what you doin’—tryin’ to slur my girl? She’s educated, that child is.”
“No; but when you said she—she liked her little Jody—why, I naturally supposed”—Johnny hesitated—“her eyesight, you know, might be—”
Weir slapped his leg and guffawed.
“Thought she was blind, did you? Well, she ain’t. If she was I wouldn’t be writing this letter. Most of it is heap private and confidential.” His face took on a broad and knowing leer as he handed over the letter. It was fat; it was face up; it bore the address:
Mr. J. D. Weir, Hillsboro, N. M.
Johnny put the letter carefully in his saddle pocket.