The telegram from his father had put the idea into his head to communicate in that way with Mary and Jack. The marshal led the way to a stage office wherein stood a counter and a row of clicking machines. "What is the cost of a telegram to Marmion, Iowa?" asked Mose. "One dollar, ten words. Each ad----" Mose thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out all his money, a handful of small change. His face grew bitter, his last dollar was broken into bits. "Make it night rates for sixty," said the operator. "Be delivered to-morrow morning." "Go ahead," said Mose, and set to work to compose a message. The marshal, with unexpected delicacy, sauntered out into the street. Now that he was actually face to face with the problem of answering Mary's letter in ten words the youth's hand refused to write, and he stood looking at the yellow slip of paper with an intensity that was comical to the clerk. Plainly this cowboy was not accustomed to telegraphing. Mose felt the waiting presence of the clerk and said: "Can I set down here and think it over?" "Why sure, take a seat at that table over there." Under the pressure of his emotion Mose wrote "Dear Mary" and stopped. The chap at the other end of the line would read that and comment on it. He struck that out. Then it occurred to him that if he signed it "Harry" _this_ operator would marvel, and if he signed "Mose" the other end of the line would wonder. He rose, crushing the paper in his hand, and went out into the street. There was only one way--to write. This he did standing at the ink-bespattered shelf which served as writing desk in the post office. "DEAR MARY: I have just received your letter. It's a little late but perhaps it ain't too late. Anyhow, I'm banking on this finding you just the same as when you wrote. I wish I could visit you again but I'm afraid I couldn't do it a second time without being recognized, but write to me at once, and, if you say come, I'll come. I am poorer than I was four years ago, but I've been on the trail, I know the mountains now. There's no other place for me, but I get lonesome sometimes when I think of you. I'm no good at writing letters--can't write as well as I could when I was twenty, so don't mind my short letter, but if I could see you! Write at once and I'll borrow or steal enough money to pay my way to you--I don't expect to ever see you out here in the West." While still pondering over his letter he heard the rustle of a woman's dress and turned to face the princess, in magnificent attire, her gloved hand extended toward him, her face radiant with pleasure. "Why, my dear boy, where have you been?" Mose shook hands, his letter to Mary (still unsealed) in his left hand. "Been down on the range," he mumbled in profound embarrassment. She assumed a girlish part. "But you _promised_ to come and see me."