“I might have,” returned Lynch briefly. “Looks like that letter was heavy enough to need two.”
Buck allowed him to weigh it in his hand for an instant, and then, in simulated confusion, he snatched it back.
“Must be writin’ to yore girl,” grinned McCabe, who had also been regarding the address curiously.
Stratton retorted in a convincingly embarrassed fashion, received his stamps and then proffered his 126 request, which was finally granted with an air of reluctance and much grumbling.
“I wouldn’t let yuh go, only I don’t know what the devil’s keepin’ that fool Bud,” growled Lynch. “Yuh tell the son-of-a-gun I ain’t expectin’ him to stop in town the rest of his natural life. If them wagon-bolts ain’t come, we’ll have to do without ’em. Yuh bring him back with yuh, an’ see yuh both get here by dinner time without fail.”
Buck gave the desired promise and, hastily saddling up, departed. About three miles from the ranch, he rode off to the side of the trail and dismounted beside a stunted mesquite. Under its twisting branches, he dug a hole with the toe of his boot and interred therein Miss Florence Denby’s letter, torn into small fragments.
This done he swung himself into the saddle and headed again for Paloma Springs, and as he rode he began to whistle blithely.