"I didn't ast you to, ma'am," said Curly. "He ain't plumb dead; he's just threatened. Oh, say, you've kind of got me rattled, you see. I've got a missage--I mean a missive--anyways a letter, from him. I had it in my pants pocket all the time, and thought it was in my coat. Them was the last words he wrote." She tore the letter from his hand, and her eyes caught every word of it at the first glance. "This is not his letter!" she exclaimed. "He never wrote it! It's not in his hand!" "Ma'am," said Curly, virtuously grieved, "how could you! I didn't _say_ he wrote it. He had to have a amanyensis, of course,--him a-layin' there all shot up. Nobody _said_ it was his handwriting It _ain't_ his handwritin'. It's his _heart_writin'. They sign it with their _hearts_, ma'am! Now I tell you that for the truth, and you can gamble on _that_, anyways. "I think I had better go away. I'm hungry, anyhow," he added, turning away. "Soon!" she said, stretching out her hand. "Wait!" her other hand trembled as she devoured the pages of the message to the queen. Her cheeks flushed. "Oh, _read_ it, ma'am!" said Curly, querulously. "Read it and get sorry. If you can read that there letter from Dan Anderson--signed with his heart--and not hit the trail for his bedside, then I've had a almighty long ride for nothing." CHAPTER XXVI THE GIRL AT HEART'S DESIRE _The Story of a Surprise, a Success, and Something Else Very Much Better_ As Curly stumped away, his spurs clinking on the gallery floor, he encountered Mr. Ellsworth, who held out his hand in recognition. "I just heard some one was down from the town," he began. "How are you, and what's the news?" "Mighty bad," said Curly, "mighty bad." Then to himself: "O Lord! I'm in for it again, and worse. I'd a heap rather lie to a woman than a man--it seems more natural." "Bring any word down with you from up there?" asked Ellsworth. Curly nodded. "I brung a letter," said he. "That so? What's it about?" "Well, sir, it bein' a letter to a lady--" "You mean my daughter? Now, what--" "Yes, it's for her," admitted Curly; "but it's personal." "Well, I didn't know but it might be news from that young man, Anderson. You know he went with the posse. Do you happen to know?" "You ask her. It is, though." "Did he send you down here?" "I'm almighty hungry; I ain't had no breakfast, nor nothing." Whereupon Curly bolted. Ellsworth, disturbed, went in search of Constance. He found her, a crumpled and pathetic figure. The news then had, indeed, been bad! "Now, now, child," he began, "what's up here? You've a letter, the man tells me." She covered it with her hand as it lay in her lap. "Is it from him, young Anderson?" he asked. She nodded. "It's written by a friend of his," she answered presently. "He himself couldn't write. He was too--ill." "Sent for you?" His voice was grave. "Yes," she whispered, "when it was too late."