“Lucky!” Virginia remonstrated, “you are covered with sand and your face is almost bleeding. Why did you come out tonight? The mail was not so important.”
“No, Miss Virginia, ’twant the mail that fetched me but the stock. Slim ain’t here and I hadn’t tol’ Uncle Tex about the little sick heifer as I’ve got down in the hospital. I knew it would be dead by morning if I didn’t come home to tend to it.” As the long, lank cow-boy talked, he was taking the mail from the pouch and placing it on the kitchen table. At first he seemed puzzled, and then troubled about something. He turned the mailbag upside down and shook it.
“What’s the matter, Lucky? Have you lost something?” Virg inquired.
“I’m afeared I have, Miss Virginia,” the cow-boy replied. “I know as how I had five letters for V. M. Ranch, but now I don’t count but four. One of ’em must have blowed away. I’m powerful sorry, Miss Virginia. It was a longish one and it was from Red Riverton, I just don’t see where that letter can be.”
The poor cow-boy was so distressed that Virginia assured him that the missive was of no great importance and that probably it would be found in the morning.
Then, returning to the living-room the girls drew their chairs close to the center table where Virginia had lighted the lamp with its cheerful crimson shade.
“Where did Lucky say the lost letter was from?” Margaret asked as she slipped a gourd into the toe of one of Malcolm’s socks. “I had never heard of the place before.”
“Oh, I imagine it is a letter from some neighboring rancher to my brother,” Virginia remarked as she took up her darning. “Red Riverton is in the northern part of the state, and—”
“Virg!” Margaret interrupted, “do you suppose that letter was from our Tom? Or rather I should say, your Tom, as he never seems conscious of my existence.”
Virginia’s eyes glowed and springing up she exclaimed, “I do believe that you may be right. I’ll ask Uncle Tex the name of the nearest postoffice to the Wilson Sheep Ranch.” Into the kitchen she skipped returning with a woe-begone expression. “You are right, and, Oh Megsy, isn’t it dreadful? We have lost the very first letter that Tom ever wrote to us, for of course it must be blown far away. Just listen to that wind. It is traveling sixty miles an hour or more and by this time the letter will be far over the Mexican border. I am just sure we never will find it.”