Johnny had voiced his need of sleep, but now that he had the opportunity he made no effort to resign himself to it. For one thing, he wanted to think over that trip to the reservation. Western men did not go romping over the hills to Indian country for the thrill of going. It had been one of the dead man’s last acts; perhaps the one which had led to his death. The boy could advance a dozen reasons for the man’s going there. Instinctively he felt it held the answer to the riddle he was trying to solve. Another talk with Dan was urgent, and then a visit to the Agency. Johnny could talk the Piute hand language. If necessary he would stay there for days until he had talked to every brave on the reservation. But that was something for this afternoon or tomorrow. For the immediate present he had a matter of equal importance in mind. Perhaps nothing would come of it, but it was surely worth the effort. Johnny was as certain now as he had been when Molly had interrupted him in his talk with Dan that the stranger had been coming back to Winnemucca for his mail. It was the boy’s intention to verify this at once. CHAPTER XI MORE THAN A BET Noontime was an hour of leisure at the post office, due to the fact that without exception the east and west mail trains arrived in the very early morning or late afternoon. This suited Johnny. Strolling up to the window he found Miss Nannie Price, the assistant postmistress, in the act of artistically dissecting an orange. “Mr. Allerdyce!” Nannie gurgled. “You _are_ a stranger, even though handsomer than usual.” “Now, you stop, Miss Nannie, ma’am,” Johnny grinned. “A new neckpiece ain’t deceivin’ you thata-way.” Nannie laughed. In common with many others, she was fond of Johnny. “You’re not expecting any mail?” she asked. “No, ma’am, not exactly. Fact is, Miss Nannie, I want you to do me a favor. And it ain’t downright reg’lar, either.” Nannie perked up at once. “Oh, Mr. Allerdyce,” she cooed, “I’m dying to know what it is.” “Well, I’ll tell yuh. There was a man over in Standing Rock the other night, and nobody could find out his name. I just bet I could. I know he was allowin’ to come back here, and I surmise he gets mail here. His initials are C. T. I told myself if anybody answered to that down here, you’d know it.” “C. T.?” queried Nannie, her memory being put to question. “C. T.—Charles, Chris, Chester, Cleve—Cleve von Thurlow? No, that would be C. V., wouldn’t it? Humph! Beats me.” And to show how positive her statement was she reached for the letters in the T pigeonhole. Thumbing them with a practiced hand she ran over them speedily. Johnny’s heart was pounding heavily, for he was having the secrets of the United States mails opened to him. Putting Nannie on her mettle had won where a more direct method would have failed most miserably.