THE STRIKE AT TOO DRY By Willis Brindley Young Percival came out of the East to a Montana ranch, and a pleasant time was not had by all--though the reader will be much diverted. The postmaster at Too Dry poked his head out of the door of the shack which served as combination of post office, real-estate office and residence, spat generously into the dusty road and yelled to the big man who had drawn up at what might in a city have been called the curb. “Letter for you, Dog.” “Who? Me?” “I guess it’s for you. Came yesterday. It’s in a thick envelope and the address is Percival John Bigelow, Too Dry, Montana.” “That’s me,” agreed Dog, and added mournfully: “Well, if that don’t beat the scratch. That’s two letters I got so far this year. If this keeps up, I’ll have to hire me a secretary. Bring it out to the car, Steve. What did she say?” But the postmaster had returned, with the popping suddenness of a prairie-dog, to his hole of an office, and Dog saw that he must follow or do without his letter. “You tote your own in this town,” he grumbled to the little man beside him. “You stay here, Ducky, till I come back, and don’t go wandering off anywhere. We gotta be traveling. It’ll be dark as the ace of spades, time we get home, as it is.” “Don’t we meet the stage or nothin’?” whined Ducky. “No, we don’t meet the stage or nothin’,” answered Dog, pushing back his wide hat and swinging a booted foot over the edge of the coverless Ford. A stranger would have known at once why he who had been named Percival John was known to his fellows as “Dog.” He looked like a dog--very much like a bench bull, with his button nose, his underslung chin, his sharp little eyes and forehead that was almost no forehead at all. As for his partner, he came quite readily by his nickname--not through any facial resemblance to a duck, but because, with his short bowlegs, he walked like one. A preacher in a day long past had baptized him Elbert Spence. * * * * * Minutes passed, during which Ducky dozed, slumped low in the front seat, and when Dog finally came and climbed over into his place slowly, the face which Ducky opened his eyes on, was drawn and sober. “You remember that I had a sister,” Dog said at last. “I don’t often speak of her.” “Uh-huh!” “Married an artist guy.” “They’re never no good.” “Not generally, but this one wasn’t so bad, take him altogether. Used to draw waterfalls and such, but he gave it up. Now he makes pretty pictures for toothpowder ads.” “Uh-huh! What about it?” “Well, they had a son, named after me--Percival Bigelow James. I got a letter from my sister. Seems he’s turned out bad.” “That so?” Ducky roused himself into a sitting position. This was better. “Rob a bank or something?” Dog shook his head. “Nope. Turned poet.” “Good gosh!” Ducky slumped again. Dog went on with it.