They entered the saloon and strode to the bar, where from all appearances Tex was not the only one to seek artificial strength. Then they repaired to a corner, where they took seats and stared at the letter Tex threw down before them. “From Missouri, all right,” averred Panhandle, studying the postmark. “Kansas City, Missouri.”
“It’s her writin’,” added Nevada, in awe. “Shore I’d know thet out of a million letters.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to read it to us?” queried Andy Smith.
“Mister Frank Owens,” replied Tex, reading from the address on the letter. “Springer’s Ranch. Beacon, Arizona.... Boys, this heah Frank Owens is all of us.”
“Huh! Mebbe he’s a darn sight more,” added Andy.
“Looks like a low-down trick we’re to blame for,” resumed Tex, seriously shaking his hawk-like head. “Heah we reads in a Kansas City paper aboot a school teacher wantin’ a job out in dry Arizonie. An’ we ups an’ writes her an’ gets her ararin’ to come. Then when she writes and tells us she’s not over forty—then we quits like yellow coyotes. An’ we four anyhow shook hands on never writin’ her again. Wal, somebody did, an’ I reckon you-all think me as big a liar as I think you. But thet ain’t the point. Heah’s another letter to Mister Owens an’ I’ll bet my saddle it means trouble. Shore I’m plumb afraid to read it.”
“Say, give it to me,” demanded Andy. “I ain’t afraid of any woman.”
Tex snatched the letter out of Andy’s hand. “Cowboy, you’re too poor educated to read letters from ladies,” observed Tex. “Gimme a knife, somebody ... Say, it’s all perfumed.”
Tex impressively spread out the letter and read laboriously:
Kansas City, Mo.,
June 15.
Dear Mr. Owens:
Your last letter has explained away much that was vague and perplexing in your other letters. It has inspired me with hope and anticipation. I shall not take time now to express my thanks, but hasten to get ready to go West. I shall leave tomorrow and arrive at Beacon on June 19, at 4:30 P. M. You see I have studied the time-table.
Yours very truly,
Jane Stacey.