"I sure found that out already, Mr. Postmaster. Met every last one of 'em this mo'nin', I'll bet. Never did see so many humans millin' around. I'll say they're thick as cattle at a round-up."
"Then you'll understand that when one man gets lost it isn't always possible to find him."
"Why not? We got some steers down in my country—about as many as you got men in this here town of yourn. Tha's what we ride the range for, so's not to lose 'em. We've traced a B-in-a-Box steer clear from Tucson to Denver, done it more'n onct or twice too. I notice you got a big bunch of man-punchers in uniform here. Ain't it their business to rustle up strays?"
"The police," said the postmaster, amused. "That is part of their business. We'll pass the buck to them anyhow."
After some delay and repeated explanations of who he was, the postmaster got at the other end of the wire his friend the commissioner. Their conversation was brief. When the postmaster hung up he rang for a stenographer and dictated a letter of introduction. This he handed to Johnnie, with explicit instructions.
"Go to Police Headquarters, Center Street, and take this note to
Captain Luke Byrne. He'll see that the matter is investigated for you."
Johnnie was profuse, but somewhat incoherent in his thanks. "Much obliged to meet you, Mr. Postmaster. An'—an' if you ever hit the trail for God's Country I'll sure—I'll sure—Us boys at the B-in-a-Box we'd be right glad to—to meet up with you. Tha's right, as the old sayin' is. We sure would. Any ol' time."
The cowpuncher's hat was traveling in a circle propelled by red, freckled hands. The official cut short Johnnie's embarrassment.
"Do you know the way to Police Headquarters?"
"I reckon I can find it. Is it fur?" The man from Arizona looked down at the high-heeled boots in which his tortured feet had clumped over the pavements of the metropolis all morning.