"In mortal danger?"
"Unless," said the stranger, "a mere friend can save him."
Jim looked into this stranger's face, at the tanned hide, seamed and furrowed with trouble, the strong hard lips, twisty with a sort of queer smile, at the eyes, which seemed to be haunted.
"Sir," he said, "I'll do what you tell me."
So he took paper and pencil from his wallet, leaned over the horn of his saddle, and made it desk enough for what he had to write.
"Will this do?" says he, passing his letter to the stranger.
"Yes, I reckon. Add, sonny, that Misteh Michael Ryan's private cyar is due from the east to-morrow, with the Pacific Express. It's timed to reach Grave City at 10:05 p.m. Chalkeye will be thar."
Jim wrote all that down, then looked up, fearful, surprised at this preacher knowing so much, then glanced all round to see which man had the best horse for his message.
"Onate!" he called.
"Si señor."