"What old man? Let me see it," said Crawley quickly. "Ah! 'Rev. Mr. Macgregor, or one of his friends.' Guess this is from the Old Prospector, eh?"
The half-breed nodded.
"Where is he?"
"Way up in mountain," he said, waving his hand toward the hills.
"Well, the preacher isn't here. It must be important," continued Crawley. "I suppose I might as well open it, especially as it is likely it will be something about outfit. Eh, Carroll?"
He was about to tear the letter open when Ike interposed.
"Hold up, there. It strikes me you're a little rapid in your conclusions. Let's have a look at the letter."
Crawley very unwillingly gave it up.
"One of his friends," read Ike, with some difficulty, "You count yourself in there, do you?" to Crawley. "You'd be mighty lucky if he agreed with you on that there point. Now I judge this ought to go to the preacher or, if he aint round, to the young lady."
So saying, Ike, without another glance at the disappointed Crawley, strode away with the letter to find Marion.