From Missouri A Compelling Novelette of Far Western Life Complete in this Issue by Zane Grey Paintings by Frank Street Drawings by Oscar Howard [Illustration: “The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place since you came,” went on Texas.] With jingling spurs a tall cowboy stalked out of the post-office to confront his three comrades crossing the wide street from the saloon opposite. “Look heah,” he said, shoving a letter under their noses. “Which one of you long-horns has wrote her again?” From a gay, careless trio his listeners suddenly grew blank, then intensely curious. They stared at the handwriting on the letter. “Tex, I’m a son-of-a-gun if it ain’t from Missouri!” ejaculated Andy Smith, his lean, red face bursting into a smile. “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. 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.