Riles would rather have done a day's work in the field than write a letter, but Gardiner insisted it must be done by him. Much of the afternoon was spent in the struggle, and Gardiner's fertile imagination had to be appealed to at several critical points. But at last the letter was completed. It ran as follows:
"John Harris esq "planvil man
"sir i take up my pen to let you no that i am all well hoppin this will find you the same well this is a grate contry their is sure a big out ov doors well mr Harris i think i see somthing here a hole lot better than 3 years on a homstead homsteads is all rite for men that Hasunt got any mony but a man with sum mony can do better i wisht i Had sold my plase before i left i could ov done well here their is lots ov chantez to make big mony their is a man here owns a cole mine he is what they call Xsentrik He is a Hermitt and lives in the Hills His mine is wurth 500000$ but He dont no it He will take 80000$ for it and we can sell it rite away for perhaps 500000$ i think we should take this up it is a grate chants if you will sell your plase rite away and bring all the mony you can then i will sell mine for the balluns be sure and bring all the mony you can if you dont like the cole mine there is lots of other chantez they will make you rich and bring the mony in bills not chex becaws He wont take chex becaws He is Xsentrik their is a man here sais His frend in new york would pay 500000$ for the cole mine if he was here and He is sending Him word so Hurry and let us get holt ov it furst then we'll sell it to Him and make a killing dont fale
"your obedyunt servunt
"HIRAM RILES."
Gardiner read the letter carefully, suppressing his amusement over
Riles' wrestlings with the language, and finally gave his approval.
"Now, you must make a copy of it," he said. "It's only business to have a copy. That was a fine touch of yours about going back to sell your own farm. I believe you have some imagination after all, if it only had a chance to sprout."
Riles protested about the labour of making a copy, but Gardiner insisted, and at last the work was completed. The sound of galloping hoofs was heard outside, and a cowboy from a neighbouring ranch called at the door to ask if there was anything wanted from town. "Here's your chance to mail your letter," Gardiner called to Riles with unnecessary loudness. "Mr. Riles dropped in here to write a letter," he explained to the rider.
Having with much difficulty folded his epistle until it could be crumpled into an envelope. Riles sealed, stamped, and addressed it, and a moment later the dust was rising down the trail as the cowboy bore the fatal missive to town. The die was cast; the match had been set to the tinder, and the fire must now burn through to a finish, let it scorch whom it would.
Gardiner took up the copy, folded it carefully, and put it in his pocket-book. "Now, Mr. Riles," he said, "we're in for this thing, and there's no backing out. At least you're in for it. You have sent a letter, in your handwriting, such as it is, to Harris, and I have a copy of it, in your handwriting, in my pocket. If this thing ever gets out these letters will make good evidence."