“I’ll look over the mail myself,” Fyles went on. “You best get back to camp, and see to that letter. Guess you’ll wait for me to take action. You can get out across the valley south. Ride on west and ford the river up at the crossing—Winter’s Crossing. See if the patrol’s in. Then make camp—and keep an eye skinned for that boy. I’ll get along later.”
The sergeant saluted and sprang into the saddle. Fyles passed into the mail office as the man rode off.
Allan Dy was used to these visits of the inspector. There were very few country postmasters who were not used to such visits. It was a process of espionage which was never acknowledged, yet one that was carried on extensively in suspected districts. There was never any verbal demand, or acquiescence, in the manner in which it was carried out. When the police officer appeared the day’s mail was usually in the process of being sorted, and was generally to be found spread out lying in full view of the searching eyes.
Fyles walked in. Passed the time of day. Collected his own mail and that of the men under him. Chatted pleasantly with the subservient official, and started to pass out again. In those brief moments he had seen all he wanted to see, which on this occasion was little enough.
There were only four letters from the East, The rest were all of local origin. One of the eastern letters was for O’Brien, and it carried an insurance firm’s superscription. There were two letters for Kate Seton, both from New York, and both carrying the firm styles of well-known retail traders in women’s clothing. The fourth was addressed to Charlie Bryant, and bore no trader’s imprint.
As he neared the door of the little office he had to stand aside as Kate Seton made her way in.
Fyles felt that his luck was certainly in. The news he had awaited with so much impatience had been received at last, and now—well, his quick appreciative eyes took in the delightfully fresh, wholesome appearance of this woman, who had made such inroads upon his usually unemotional heart. There was not a detail escaped him. The rounded figure suggesting virility and physical well-being. Her delightful, purposeful face full of a wide intelligence and strength. Those wonderful dark eyes of such passionate, tender depth, which yet held possibilities for every emotion which finds its place in the depth of a strong heart.
She was clad, too, so differently from the general run of the villagers. Like her sister, though in a lesser degree, she breathed the air of a city—a city far from these western regions, a city where refinement and culture inspires a careful regard for outward appearance.
She smiled upon him as he stood aside. Somehow the shyness which her sister had accused her of seemed to have gone. Her whole atmosphere was that of a cordial welcome.
“You’re early down for your mail, Mr. Fyles,” she said, after greeting him. “I’m generally right on the spot before Allan Dy is through. Still, I dare say your mail is more important, and stands for no delay.”