"Of course he ought. But _will_ he, that's the question." "No, he won't," admitted Curly, pushing his hat still farther back on his head. "He's took his stand, and done what he allowed was right. After that, he ain't built to crawfish. He's passed up the girl, and the railroad, too, and I reckon that settles it." "And yet he thinks a heap of the girl." "Natural? Of course he does. How can he help it? That's where the trouble is. I tell you, Tom, these here things is sort of _personal_. If these two folks is havin' trouble of their own, why, it's _their_ trouble, and it ain't for us to square it, railroad or no railroad." "When two people is damn fools," commented Tom Osby, gravely, "it's all right for foreign powers to mediate a-plenty." "But what you goin' to do? She won't bat a eye at him, and he ain't goin' to send for her." "Oh, yes he _is_," corrected Tom Osby; and the forefinger, crowding tobacco into his pipe, worked vigorously. "He's _got_ to send for her." "Looks to me like we can't do nothin'," replied his friend, pessimistically. "I like that girl, too. Say, I'll braid her a nice hair rope and take it down to her. Maybe that'll kind o' square things with her for losin' out with Dan." "Yes," scoffed Tom Osby, "that's all the brains a fool cow puncher has got. Do you reckon a hair lariat, or a new pair of spurs, is any decent remedy for a girl's wownded affections? No, sir, not none. No, you go on down and take your old hair rope with you, and give it to the girl. That's all right; but you're goin' to take something else along with you at the same time." "What's that?" "Why, you're goin' to take a letter to her,--a letter from Dan Andersen's death-bed." "Who--me? Death-bed? Why, he ain't _on_ no death-bed. He's eatin' three squares a day and settin' up readin' novels. Death-bed nothin'!" "Oh, no," said Tom Osby, "that's where you're mistaken. Dan Anderson _is_ on his death-bed; and he writes his dyin' confession, his message in such cases made and pervided. He sends his last words to his own true love. Says he, 'All is forgiven.' Then she flies to receive his dyin' words. You ain't got no brains, Curly. You ain't got no imagi_na_tion. Why, if I left all this to you, she'd get here too late for the funeral. You're a specialist, Curly. You can rope and throw a two-thousand-pound steer, but you can't handle a woman that don't weigh over a hundred and twenty-five. Now, you watch your Pa." Curly sat and looked at him in silence for a few minutes, but at last a light seemed to dawn upon him. "Oh, I _see_," said he, smiling broadly. "You mean for us to get up a letter for him--write it out and send it, like he done it hisself."