Seems to be scratches on the smooth side of this paper, sort of reminding me that Bull has a fountainpen sticking out of his vest pocket. If he's been writing with milk, I'd warm the paper—but no, we use canned milk, and haven't got any either. I've heard faintly somewheres of things wrote in spittle, so I pours on a bottle of ink, and rinses the paper in the water-butt. Yes, there's the message plain as print.
"Gun to hand, but cartridges wrong size, no good. Get .45. Billy to wait with ponies under nearest pine N. of cave, when plough above N. Star. Send more gum for chief's wound.—Bull."
Billy was mounting at the door to put out for solitude, but since he knows I can't miss under two hundred yards, he was persuaded to come into the cabin. There I read him some of the etiquette about keeping his temper, and not using coarse language. Also I told him politely what I thought of him, and where he'll go when he dies. He waited, stroking the little fur on his muzzle, till I got through, looking so damned patient with me that I came near handing him one in the eye.
"You invited these robbers to my grass?"
"Thanks to you, my wife had a gun muzzle screwed round in her ear."
"Bet she squinted!" said Billy.
If I lose my temper, I can't shoot, and Billy knew that well. "She's up agin it good and hard," said he.
"Agin what?"
"Making a silk purse out of a sow's ear."