“Letter for you. Reckon it’s for you, ’cause there ain’t no other Bowles around this here neck of the woods. You got to sign your full name, same as on that letter or I can’t let you have it. Sabe?
“This here is a special delivery letter—darn such things! Uncle Sam forces me to ride plumb up here to deliver this or take the consequences, which I believe is three hundred days in jail or a year—sign right on that line. Now, I reckon I’ll go on back. Hope it ain’t bad news, Muley. Mostly always a letter of that kind or a telegram means death. Come from Milwaukee. You got any kin in Milwaukee?”
But Muley has gone back into the house, and Paddy don’t get the information he seeks.
About fifteen minutes later Muley comes down to the bunk-house, where I’m putting some rosettes on a new bridle, and he’s got a grin plumb across his fat face. I glances at him and goes on working.
“Henry,” says he, after a little while, “would you like to have a job herding my sheep?”
“Your sheep? Sure. I’ll herd all you got in my sleep.”
“I’m going to be the richest man in Yaller Rock County,” he proclaims.
“You better talk lower, Muley,” I advises. “If the county commissioners hear you talk thataway they’ll way-bill you to the loco-lodge at Warm Springs.”
“You remember me telling you about my Aunt Agnes, Hen? She died.”
“And left you a sheep?” I asks.