“Men are different,” said Sailor owlishly. “I’m not speakin’ of men, Mister—er⸺”
“Stevens,” said Hashknife.
“To be shore. How’re yuh, Steve? Pleased to meetcha. Well, I’ve got to git home—’f I kin. Gittin’ old, boys. Tha’s all right,” he pointed a finger at the opposite wall. “Nex’ time the door comes around, I’ll bus’ right through.”
“I’ll walk to the hitchrack with yuh,” offered Hashknife.
“Well, tha’s nice of yuh, I’m shore. ’Preciate it. Whoa, Blaze! C’mon, par’ner.”
Hashknife walked out and helped him on his horse. He untied the rope, looped it around the horn, while Sailor gathered up his reins. Suddenly he surged back on the reins, swung the horse around in a sharp curve, socked home the spurs and let out a yell, which could be heard all over town.
The horse made a lunging buck, almost unseating Sailor, and the mail flew from his hip-pocket, scattering out behind him, as he went streaking down the street. Hashknife walked out and recovered the mail, putting it in his own pocket.
“He’ll probably miss it later, and come back for it,” laughed Sleepy, as they walked down to the livery stable.
A little later Hashknife happened to think about the mail, and took it from his pocket. There were two letters to Whispering Taylor, which Hashknife judged were from some patent-medicine manufacturers, and one letter addressed to Miss Singer, bearing the letterhead of Amos A. Baggs.
Hashknife turned the letter over and noticed that the flap was not securely fastened. In fact, it could have been opened by round handling. A flip of the thumb, and it was open. Hashknife was not in the habit of opening other people’s mail, but something told him to look at the enclosure. It read: