"Now there's a thoroughly nice girl," he said. "I wonder why she doesn't get married." Then, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, he began to write, describing the beauty of the country; the noble qualities of his horse, Chapuli, the Grasshopper; the march of the vast army of sheep; Creede, Tommy, and whatnot, with all the pent-up enthusiasm of a year's loneliness. When it was ended he looked at the letter with a smile, wondering whether to send it by freight or express. Six cents in stamps was the final solution of the problem, and as his pocketbook contained only four he stuck them on and awaited his partner's return. "Say, Jeff," he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, "have you got any stamps?" "Any which?" inquired Creede suspiciously. "Any postage stamps--to put on letters." "Huh!" exclaimed Creede. "You must think I've got a girl--or important business in the States. No, I'll tell you. The only stamp I've got is in a glass frame, hung up on the wall--picture of George Washington, you know. Haven't you never seen it? W'y, it's right there in the parler--jest above the pianney--and a jim-dandy piece of steel engraving she is, too." He grinned broadly as he concluded this running fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end. "Well," he said, "I guess I'll go down to Moroni in the morning, then." "What ye goin' down there for?" demanded Creede incredulously. "Why, to buy a stamp, of course," replied Hardy, "it's only forty miles, isn't it?" And early in the morning, true to his word, he saddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river. From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in a dubious smile. "There's something funny goin' on here, ladies," he observed sagely, "something funny--and I'm dogged if I savvy what it is." He stooped and scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. "Well, Tom, Old Socks," he said, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters, "you've got a pretty good nose, how about it, now--can you smell a rat?" But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride forty miles in order to buy a stamp. CHAPTER IX MORONI The Mormon settlement of Moroni proved to belong to that large class of Western "cities" known as "string-towns"--a long line of stores on either side of a main street, brick where fires have swept away the shacks, and wood with false fronts where dynamite or a change of wind has checked the conflagration; a miscellaneous conglomeration of saloons, restaurants, general stores, and livery stables, all very satisfying to the material wants of man, but in the ensemble not over-pleasing to the eye.