"Sir,—I have the honour to inform you that Mr. Ramsay has been delivered in good condition at the Throne Mine. I regret to add that he has broken my left arm with a stick of dynamite which he threw at a chipmunk, now deceased. I will report to-morrow.
"I have the honour to be, Sir,
Your obedient servant,
JOSÉ LAS MORẼNAN DE LA MANCHA,
Constable.
"The Officer Commanding,
Wild Horse Creek,
Kootenay, B.C."
This letter, written with pain and difficulty on a piece of wrapping paper, was put, by the Blackguard's directions, into one of the saddle-bags of Mr. Ramsay's horse.
"Make her head fast by a check-rein to the horn of the saddle," he said. "Bash the animal on the hindquarters, then turn her loose on the down trail Since she can't feed until the check-rein's unfastened, she'll go straight to camp, unless she's a born fool."
He was sitting in front of the log-cabin, his arm in splints and a sling, while the prospectors. Long Leslie and Shorty, followed these instructions as to the horse. When the mare was gone, to the extreme disgust of La Mancha's huge black charger, he looked from one to the other of the two miners.
"Prospectors' luck," he said regretfully. "Your chipmunk, now demised, had a nibble of flour a day, while I eat by the bushel."
"I guess we can stand it," said Shorty; "you needn't growl till you're told."
"Prospectors' luck," said Long Leslie wistfully, "brings a jolly good fellow to remind us we're still alive. It's your turn, Shorty, to wash up—I'm going to smoke." So he sat down beside the Blackguard, not the less enjoying his after-supper pipe because his partner must do the dirty work of the day. "We've been getting lonesome these last few months," he said,—"since the Lunatic came."
"He's a cad!" said the Blackguard.