"Yours in haste, "JACK." Mose tingled with the sudden joy of it. Jack's letter, so unlike his usual calm, was convincing. He sprang up, a smile on his face, his eyes shining with happiness, his blood surging through his heart, and then he remembered the letters were three years old! The gray cloud settled down upon him--his limbs grew cold, and the light went out of his eyes. Three years! While he was camping in the Grand Canon with the lizards and skunks she was waiting to hear from him. While he sat in the shade of the walls of Walpi, surrounded by hungry dogs and pot-bellied children, she was singing for him and wondering whether her letter had ever reached him. Three years! A thousand things could happen in three years. She may have died!--a cold shudder touched him--she might tire of waiting and marry some one else--or she might have gone away to the East, that unknown and dangerous jungle of cities. He sprang up again. "I will go to see her!" he said to himself. Then he remembered. His horse was worn, he had no money and no suitable clothing. Then he thought: "I will write." It did not occur to him to telegraph, for he had never done such a thing in his life. He walked out into the sitting-room, his letters in his hands. "How far do you call it to Wagon Wheel?" "About thirty miles, and all up hill." "Will you loan me one of your bronchos?" "Certain sure, my boy." "I want to ride up there and send a couple of letters." "Better wait till morning," said Reynolds. "Your letters have waited three years--I reckon they'll keep over night." "That's so," said Mose with a smile. Sleep came to him swiftly, in spite of his letters, for he was very tired, but he found the room close and oppressive when he arose in the morning. The women were already preparing breakfast and Reynolds sat by the fire pulling on his boots. As they were walking out to the barn Reynolds plucked him by the sleeve and said: "I reckon I've lost my chance to kill Craig." "Why?" "A Mexican took the job off my hands." His face expressed a sort of gloomy dissatisfaction. Then without looking at Mose he went on: "That's one reason daughter looks so pert. She's free of that skunk's clutches now--and can hold up her head. She's free to marry a decent man." Mose was silent. Mary's letter had thrust itself between his lips and Cora's shapely head, and all thought of marriage with her was gone. As they galloped up to the camp the boys were at work finishing the last bunch of calves. The camp wagon was packed and ready to start across the divide, but the cook flourished a newspaper and came running up. "Here you are, posted like a circus." Mose took the paper, and on the front page read in big letters: