"But didn't you give any street and number?" cried Hardy, aghast. "Why, for Heaven's sake, Jeff, there are half a million people in St. Louis--she'd never get it in the world." "No?" inquired Creede apathetically. "Well, it don't make no difference, then. I don't amount to a dam', anyhow--and this is no place for a woman--but, by God, Rufe, I do git awful lonely when I see you writin' them letters to the boss. If I only had somebody that cared for me I'd prize up hell to make good. I'd do anything in God's world--turn back them sheep or give up my six-shooter, jest as she said; but, nope, they's no such luck for Jeff Creede--he couldn't make a-winnin' with a squaw." "Jeff," said Hardy quietly, "how much would you give to get a letter from Sallie?" "What d'ye mean?" demanded Creede, looking up quickly. Then, seeing the twinkle in his partner's eye, he made a grab for his money. "My whole wad," he cried, throwing down the roll. "What's the deal?" "All right," answered Hardy, deliberately counting out the bills, "there's the ante--a hundred dollars. The rest I hold back for that trip to St. Louis. This hundred goes to the Rinkerton Detective Agency, St. Louis, Missouri, along with a real nice letter that I'll help you write; and the minute they deliver that letter into the hands of Miss Sallie Winship, formerly of Hidden Water, Arizona, and return an answer, there's another hundred coming to 'em. Is it a go?" "Pardner," said Creede, rising up solemnly from his place, "I want to shake with you on that." The next morning, with a package of letters in the crown of his black hat, Jefferson Creede swam Bat Wings across the swift current of the Salagua, hanging onto his tail from behind, and without even stopping to pour the water out of his boots struck into the long trail for Bender. One week passed, and then another, and at last he came back, wet and dripping from his tussle with the river, and cursing the very name of detectives.