“A streak up his back as wide as this street. His cook says he’s stayin’ close to a gun. That means he’s packin’ one, Harry. Johnson will prob’ly notify the directors and Charley will lose his job.”
“He ain’t notified ’em yet, has he?”
“Not yet. But he’ll have to pretty soon.”
“I suppose so.”
The mail had arrived a few minutes before the sheriff left the Oasis, so he sauntered over to the little post office, where there was usually a knot of men, waiting for distribution. Amos Baggs was there, but he looked so sour that the sheriff did not talk with him.
Baggs was one of the first to get his mail, and the sheriff idly watched him open an envelope and scan the contents. A blank stare overspread the face of the lawyer, succeeded by a sag of astonishment. He blinked rapidly several times, shut his teeth with a determined snap, and walked out, striking his shoulder against the side of the door as he made his rather blind exit.
“I’ll betcha that’s bad news,” said the sheriff to himself, as he headed for the little window, where the postmaster handed out the mail.
But the sheriff didn’t know half how bad it was. Amos went back to his office and flopped down in his chair, limp as a rag. He stared blindly at the wall for several minutes, before he took out that letter and looked it over again. It was from San Francisco, and read:
“Dear Baggs,—More tough luck and a scheme gone wrong. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and some smashed ribs, but that is only part of it. The girl who was to work with you on that deal was instantly killed in the same accident. Sorry I couldn’t notify you sooner, but I’ve been in bad shape. Will write you more about it later.
“Sincerely,
“Jack Pollock.
“P.S.—Tell Harry about it.”
Baggs crumpled the letter in his hand, scratched a match and applied it to the paper, after which he placed the paper on top of a cuspidor and watched it fade to writhing ashes.