The marshal led the way to a stage office wherein stood a counter and a row of clicking machines.
"What is the cost of a telegram to Marmion, Iowa?" asked Mose.
"One dollar, ten words. Each ad——"
Mose thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out all his money, a handful of small change. His face grew bitter, his last dollar was broken into bits.
"Make it night rates for sixty," said the operator. "Be delivered to-morrow morning."
"Go ahead," said Mose, and set to work to compose a message. The marshal, with unexpected delicacy, sauntered out into the street.
Now that he was actually face to face with the problem of answering Mary's letter in ten words the youth's hand refused to write, and he stood looking at the yellow slip of paper with an intensity that was comical to the clerk. Plainly this cowboy was not accustomed to telegraphing.
Mose felt the waiting presence of the clerk and said:
"Can I set down here and think it over?"
"Why sure, take a seat at that table over there."