Hashknife yawned widely and glanced around the room.
“Skelton, you ain’t got anythin’ like mucilage, have you?”
“Y’betcha, I have. Li’l bottle, with a brush attached. I dunno what it was used fer, and she’s been here since before Heck’s father went wooin’. Whatcha want it fer?”
“To make this danged letter look like it never was opened.”
Sleepy grinned joyously.
“Gimme credit——”
“Fer nothin’,” finished Hashknife. “That was a common thing before your great, great-grandfather was lynched for tryin’ to tell folks what to do.”
Hashknife held the envelop over the steam from the tea-kettle, until the flap was softened, and removed the letter. He spread out the single sheet on the table, and the three of them read it together.
Dear Dad:
I will arrive nearly as soon as this letter, but am sending it anyway. I hope that your injured arm is better now. It was very kind of your foreman, Mr. Easton, to write in your stead, and I shall thank him personally for his offer to meet me at Gunsight.