“Say,” he observed meekly, “I guess it wus in that, sure. Sure, yes,” he nodded emphatically, “I planted it that a-ways to kep it from the dirt. I ’member readin’ the headin’ o’ that paper. Et wus ’bout some high-soundin’ female in New Yo——”
“Confound it!” Tresler was more distressed for the little man than angry with him. He knew Jake would be furious, and cast about in his mind for excuses that might save him. The only one he could think of was feeble enough, but he suggested it.
“Well, there’s only one thing to do; we must ride back, and you can say you lost the letter on the way out, and have spent the day looking for it.”
Joe seemed utterly dejected. “Sure, yes. There’s on’y one thing to do,” he murmured disconsolately. “We must ride back. Say, you’re sure, plumb sure it ain’t in one of my pockets? Dead sure I must ’a’ lost it?”
“No doubt of it. Damn it, Joe, I’m sorry. You’ll be in a deuce of a scrape with Jake. It’s all that cursed drink.”
“That’s so,” murmured the culprit mournfully. His face was turned away. Now it suddenly brightened as though a fresh and more hopeful view of the matter had presented itself, and his twisted features slowly wreathed themselves into a smile. His deep-set eyes twinkled with an odd sort of mischievous humor as he raised them abruptly to the troubled face of his companion.
“Guess I kind o’ forgot to tell you. I gave the sheriff that letter this mornin’ ’fore I called on Carney. Mebbe, ef I’d told you ’fore I’d ’a’ saved you——”
“You little——”
Tresler could find no words to express his exasperation. He made a grab at the now grinning man’s coat collar, seized him, and, lifting him bodily, literally threw him on to the back of his buckskin pony.