Tom Osby nodded. "Of course--that's the only way. There wouldn't either of them write to the other one. That's the trouble with these here States girls, and them men from the States, too. You have to take care of 'em. You and me has got to be gardeens for these two folks. If we don't, they're goin' to make all kinds of trouble for theirselves and each other." "Kin you disguise your handwritin' any, Tom?" asked Curly. "I can't. Mine's kind of sot." "Curly," answered Tom, with scorn, "what you call your brains is only a oroide imitation of a dollar watch. Why, of course we can't write a letter and sign his name to it deliberate. That's forgery, and we'd get into the penitentiary for it. That ain't the way to do. "Now look here. Dan Anderson may be lookin' right well for a dyin' man, but he's on his death-bed just the same. That's needful for the purposes of dramatic construction. He's a-layin' there, pale and wore out. His right arm is busted permernent, and it's only a question of time when he cashes in--though he _might_ live a few days if he was plumb shore his own true love was a-hastenin' to his bedside." "But it was his _left_ arm that got shot," argued Curly; "and it didn't amount to a whole lot at that." "There's you go," jeered Tom, in answer, "with them imitation brain works of yours. It's his _right_ arm that's busted. Now, him a-layin' there plumb helpless, his thoughts turns to his bride that might 'a' been, but wasn't. With his last dyin' words he greets her. If she would only hasten to his deathbed, he could die in peace. That's what he writes to her. 'Dear Madam,' says he, 'Havin' loved you all my life, I fain would gaze on you onct more. In that case,' says he, 'the clouds certainly would roll away!'" "That shorely would _fetch_ her," said Curly, admiringly, "but how you goin' to fix it?" "Why, how? There ain't but one way. The dyin' man has his dear friend Curly, or Tom Osby, or some one, write his last words for him. That ain't counterfeitin'. That's only actin' as his literary amanyensis, and that's plumb legal." "Things may be legal, and not _safe_," objected Curly. "Supposin' he finds out?" "Why, then, we'll be far, far away. This letter has got to be wrote. I can't write it myself, and you can't; but maybe several of us could." "I ain't in on writin' the letter," Curly decided; "I'll carry it, but my writin' is too sot, and so's my thinker." "Well, I ain't used my own thinker in this particular way for about twenty years," said Tom Osby, "although I did co'te two of my wives by perlite correspondence, something like this; and I couldn't see but what them wives lasted as good as any."