“It shore is,” declared Nevada.
“From Missouri!” echoed Panhandle Ames.
“Wal?” queried Tex, almost with a snort.
The three cowboys jerked up to look from Tex to one another, and then back at Tex.
“It’s from her,” went on Tex, his voice hushing on the pronoun. “You all know thet handwritin’. Now how aboot this deal? We swore none of us would write again to this heah schoolmarm. Some one of you has double-crossed the outfit.” Loud and unified protestations of innocence emanated from his comrades. But it was evident Tex did not trust them, and that they did not trust him or each other. “Say, boys,” said Panhandle, suddenly. “I see Beady in there lookin’ darn sharp at us. Let’s get off in the woods somewhere.”
“Back to the bar,” replied Nevada. “I reckon we’ll all need stimulants.”
“Beady!” ejaculated Tex, as they turned across the street. “He could be to blame as much as any of us.”
“Shore. It’d be more like Beady,” replied Nevada. “But Tex, yore mind ain’t workin’. Our lady friend from Missouri has wrote before without gettin’ any letter from us.”
“How do we know thet?” demanded Tex, suspiciously. “Shore the boss’ typewriter is a puzzle, but it could hide tracks. Savvy, pards?”
“Gee, Tex, you need a drink,” returned Panhandle, peevishly.