"Well, boys," she remarked, with a teasing smile, "I'm postmistress this trip, so line up here and give me your present names--also the names you went by back in Texas. 'James Doyle!' Why, is that your name, Red? Here's one for you, too, Uncle Joe. All right now, here's one from Moroni--for Charley Clark! Aw, Brig, are you still writing to that girl down on the river? Well, isn't that provoking! And here's a whole bunch for Hardy Atkins. Every one from a girl, too--I can tell by the handwriting. No, Mr. Buchanan, you don't draw anything--not under that name, anyway. But here's one for Sam Houghton--maybe that's for you? No? Well, who is it for? No, we can't go any further until I deliver this Houghton letter. Who is there here that answers to the name of Sam?" She glanced all around, a roguish twinkle in her eye, but no one claimed that honor. "Nothing to be afraid of," she urged. "It was mailed at Chula Vista, and written by a girl. Pretty handwriting, too--something like mine. I bet there's something nice inside of it--I can tell by the curly-cues on the letters." Once more she surveyed her circle of smirking admirers, but no one answered the call. She looked again, and her eyes fell on Mr. Bowles. "Stranger," she said, speaking with well-simulated hesitation, "I didn't quite catch your name down at the ranch--isn't this letter for you?" For a moment Bowles' heart stopped beating altogether and a hundred crazy fancies fogged his brain; then he shook his head, and gazed shamefacedly away. "My name is Bowles," he said stiffly; "Samuel Bowles." "Well, this says Samuel," reasoned Dixie Lee, advancing to show him the letter. "Here--take a look at it!" She stepped very close as she spoke, and as Bowles glanced at her he saw that her eyes were big with portent. Then he scanned the letter, and in a flash he recognized her handwriting--the same that he had seen on the train. A strange impulse to possess the missive swept over him at this, and his hand leaped out to seize it; but the look in her eyes detained him. They were big with mystery, but he sensed also a shadow of deceit. And while she might merely have designs on his peace of mind, there were other possibilities involved. To be sure, his name had been Houghton on his railroad ticket, but that did not prove anything now; and, besides, he did not want even that to be known. Affairs of the heart prosper best in secret, without the aid of meddling or officious outsiders; and for that reason, if for no other, Bowles desired to remain incog. Even with a false clue, Dixie May might write to New York, and ultimately reach his aunt, thus cutting short his romantic adventures. She might even--but he skipped the rest of the things she might do, and straightened his face to a mask. "Ah, thank you, no," he said, speaking very formally. "Not for me--though the handwriting does seem familiar."