The seal was unbroken and Liz turned it over in her hand.
“Gabe Freeler,” she read slowly, “frum Luce Bozeman.”
“You give it here,” he reiterated. “Er—mebbe,” sheepishly, “yer mout make out ter read it. I ain’t rightly guessed what it mout be.”
The girl regarded him uncertainly as she hesitated to break the seal.
“Read it, ef yer kin,” he said irritably, standing beside the mare now disentangled from the broken harness and shafts, and mopping the perspiration from his brow. “Ef ever I’d er be’n ter school three months I ’low I could read any writin’ thet ever wuz writ.”
“’Tain’t no three months!” replied the girl with asperity. “’Twasn’t but only two months and three weeks; but I reck’n I kin read anything Luce Bozeman kin write!”
“You gimme that letter!” he flared. “I guess yer won’t git no chanct ter read it!”
As he advanced to take it from her hand the attention of the three was arrested by the approach of a shock-headed youth riding rapidly around the bend in the thickly-shaded road. He wore no hat and appeared to be in excited haste. Without salutation or unnecessary parley, he delivered his message:
“She says, air yer er comin’? Yes or no!”
Freeler stared at him blankly. “Wall, I know who ye air, an’ I know whar yer come frum,” he said slowly, “but I’ll be durned ef I know what ye air er drivin’ at.”