I saw his eyes quietly run the headings over. “Well?” he inquired, after scanning it on both sides. “I don't seem to catch the excitement. Fremont County is going to hold elections. I see they claim Jake—”
“It's mine,” I cut him off. “My own paper. Those are my pencil marks.”
I do not think that a microscope could have discerned a change in his face. “Oh,” he commented, holding the paper, and fixing it with a critical eye. “You mean this is the one you lent Steve, and he wanted to give me to give back to you. And so them are your own marks.” For a moment more he held it judicially, as I have seen men hold a contract upon whose terms they were finally passing. “Well, you have got it back now, anyway.” And he handed it to me.
“Only a piece of it!” I exclaimed, always lightly. And as I took it from him his hand chanced to touch mine. It was cold as ice.
“They ain't through readin' the rest,” he explained easily. “Don't you throw it away! After they've taken such trouble.”
“That's true,” I answered. “I wonder if it's Pounds or Ounces I'm indebted to.”
Thus we made further merriment as we rode down into the great basin. Before us, the horse and boot tracks showed plain in the soft slough where melted snow ran half the day.
“If it's a paper chase,” said the Virginian, “they'll drop no more along here.”
“Unless it gets dark,” said I.
“We'll camp before that. Maybe we'll see their fire.”