The summer waned and passed. The grass was quite dead above ground, although the roots flourished below. The cactus increased in quantity. Often it pointed long melancholy arms southward as if to indicate that misfortune lay that way. The great silence settled about them again. There were no Indians, no Mexicans, no scouts, no hunters. Phil’s thoughts reverted to his original quest. One day as he sat in the wagon he took the worn paper from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and read it for the thousandth time. He was about to hold it up and put it back in its resting place, when Bill Breakstone, seeking an hour or so of rest, sprang into the wagon, also. It was Phil’s first impulse to thrust the paper quickly out of sight, and Bill Breakstone, with innate delicacy, pretended not to see, merely settling himself, with a cheerful word or two, into a comfortable seat. But Phil’s second thought was the exact opposite. He withheld his hand and opened the worn and soiled paper. "This is a letter, Bill," he said, "and you’ve seen it." "At a distance," replied Bill Breakstone with assumed carelessness. "Too far for me to read a word of it. Love letter of yours, Phil? You’re rather young for that sort of thing. Still, I suppose I’ll have to call you Sir Philip of the Lost Lady and the Broken Heart." "It’s not that," said Phil. "This letter tells why I came into the Southwest. Somehow, I’ve wanted to keep it to myself, but I don’t now. Will you read it, Bill? It’s hard to make out some of the words, but if you look close you can tell." He reached out the worn piece of paper. "Not unless you feel that you really want me to read it," said Breakstone. "I really want you to do so," said Phil. Breakstone took the paper in his hands and smoothed it out. Then he held it up to the light, because the writing was faded and indistinct, and deciphered: