The driver held out his hand for the letters and shoved them carelessly into the pocket of his overcoat.
"Mind you don't forget to post them," repeated Stephens; "they're important." At this instant there came into his mind a thing that he had forgotten, so absorbed had he become in the troubles of the Sanchez family. Some stage-driver had libelled him to Sam Argles, and he had intended to find out who it was. Probably this was the man. "Say," he began, "do you remember driving a man named Sam Argles, a miner from Prescott, over this line a month or two back?"
"Can't say, I'm sure," replied the driver, who was shortening a trace with some difficulty. "You don't suppose as I can remember the names of all the passengers I take?"
"Well, Argles was over this line recently," said Stephens, "and he reports that a driver on it told him something about me."
"Likely he did," said the driver unconcernedly; "like as not, too, 't warn't me. I aint the only driver on this line."
"Then you deny having told him I was a squawman?" said Stephens.
"Dunno nawthin' about it," replied the driver, gathering up the lines and climbing to his perch. "It's no concern of mine." But he avoided meeting Stephens's eye.
"Well, so long," said the latter; "I'm obliged to you about the letters," and without further comment on the matter he started back towards the Sanchez house.
"A d—d highfalutin, tonified cuss he is," said Backus as soon as the prospector was out of earshot. "If you was to drop them letters in the Rio Grande it'd serve him right for bouncing you like that."