“You’re to drive the mules up to McGlynn’s and unhitch them and leave them,” said he. “I’m to show you the way.”
“Where’s McGlynn?” I asked.
“He’s getting his mail.”
We drove to a corral and three well-pitched tents down in the southern edge of town. Here a sluggish stream lost its way in a swamp of green hummocky grass. I turned out the mules in the corral and hung up the harness.
“McGlynn says you’re to go to the post-office and he’ll pay you there,” my guide instructed me.
The post-office proved to be a low adobe one-story building, with the narrow veranda typical of its kind. A 110 line of men extended from its door and down the street as far as the eye could reach. Some of them had brought stools or boxes, and were comfortably reading scraps of paper.
I walked down the line. A dozen from the front I saw Johnny standing. This surprised me, for I knew he could not expect mail by this steamer. Before I had reached him he had finished talking to a stranger, and had yielded his place.
“Hullo!” he greeted me. “How you getting on?”
“So-so!” I replied. “I’m looking for a man who owes me twenty-five dollars.”
“Well, he’s here,” said Johnny confidently. “Everybody in town is here.”