"I want to ride up there and send a couple of letters."
"Better wait till morning," said Reynolds. "Your letters have waited three years—I reckon they'll keep over night."
"That's so," said Mose with a smile.
Sleep came to him swiftly, in spite of his letters, for he was very tired, but he found the room close and oppressive when he arose in the morning. The women were already preparing breakfast and Reynolds sat by the fire pulling on his boots.
As they were walking out to the barn Reynolds plucked him by the sleeve and said:
"I reckon I've lost my chance to kill Craig."
"Why?"
"A Mexican took the job off my hands." His face expressed a sort of gloomy dissatisfaction. Then without looking at Mose he went on: "That's one reason daughter looks so pert. She's free of that skunk's clutches now—and can hold up her head. She's free to marry a decent man."
Mose was silent. Mary's letter had thrust itself between his lips and Cora's shapely head, and all thought of marriage with her was gone.