From Missouri

With jingling spurs a tall cowboy stalked out of the post-office to confront his three comrades crossing the wide street from the saloon opposite. “Look heah,” he said, shoving a letter under their noses. “Which one of you long-horns has wrote her again?”

From a gay, careless trio his listeners suddenly grew blank, then intensely curious. They stared at the handwriting on the letter. “Tex, I’m a son-of-a-gun if it ain’t from Missouri!” ejaculated Andy Smith, his lean, red face bursting into a smile.

“It shore is,” declared Nevada.

“From Missouri!” echoed Panhandle Ames.

“Wal?” queried Tex, almost with a snort.

The three cowboys jerked up to look from Tex to one another, and then back at Tex.

“It’s from her,” went on Tex, his voice hushing on the pronoun. “You all know thet handwritin’. Now how aboot this deal? We swore none of us would write again to this heah schoolmarm. Some one of you has double-crossed the outfit.” Loud and unified protestations of innocence emanated from his comrades. But it was evident Tex did not trust them, and that they did not trust him or each other. “Say, boys,” said Panhandle, suddenly. “I see Beady in there lookin’ darn sharp at us. Let’s get off in the woods somewhere.”

“Back to the bar,” replied Nevada. “I reckon we’ll all need stimulants.”

“Beady!” ejaculated Tex, as they turned across the street. “He could be to blame as much as any of us.”

“Shore. It’d be more like Beady,” replied Nevada. “But Tex, yore mind ain’t workin’. Our lady friend from Missouri has wrote before without gettin’ any letter from us.”

“How do we know thet?” demanded Tex, suspiciously. “Shore the boss’ typewriter is a puzzle, but it could hide tracks. Savvy, pards?”

“Gee, Tex, you need a drink,” returned Panhandle, peevishly.

They entered the saloon and strode to the bar, where from all appearances Tex was not the only one to seek artificial strength. Then they repaired to a corner, where they took seats and stared at the letter Tex threw down before them. “From Missouri, all right,” averred Panhandle, studying the postmark. “Kansas City, Missouri.”

“It’s her writin’,” added Nevada, in awe. “Shore I’d know thet out of a million letters.”

“Ain’t you goin’ to read it to us?” queried Andy Smith.

“Mister Frank Owens,” replied Tex, reading from the address on the letter. “Springer’s Ranch. Beacon, Arizona.... Boys, this heah Frank Owens is all of us.”

“Huh! Mebbe he’s a darn sight more,” added Andy.

“Looks like a low-down trick we’re to blame for,” resumed Tex, seriously shaking his hawk-like head. “Heah we reads in a Kansas City paper aboot a school teacher wantin’ a job out in dry Arizonie. An’ we ups an’ writes her an’ gets her ararin’ to come. Then when she writes and tells us she’s _not over forty_—then we quits like yellow coyotes. An’ we four anyhow shook hands on never writin’ her again. Wal, somebody did, an’ I reckon you-all think me as big a liar as I think you. But thet ain’t the point. Heah’s another letter to Mister Owens an’ I’ll bet my saddle it means trouble. Shore I’m plumb afraid to read it.”

“Say, give it to me,” demanded Andy. “I ain’t afraid of any woman.”

Tex snatched the letter out of Andy’s hand. “Cowboy, you’re too poor educated to read letters from ladies,” observed Tex. “Gimme a knife, somebody ... Say, it’s all perfumed.”

Tex impressively spread out the letter and read laboriously:

Kansas City, Mo., June 15. Dear Mr. Owens:

Your last letter has explained away much that was vague and perplexing in your other letters. It has inspired me with hope and anticipation. I shall not take time now to express my thanks, but hasten to get ready to go West. I shall leave tomorrow and arrive at Beacon on June 19, at 4:30 P.M. You see I have studied the time-table.

Yours very truly, Jane Stacey.

Profound silence followed Tex’s perusal of the letter. The cowboys were struck dumb. But suddenly Nevada exploded: “My Gawd, fellars, today’s the nineteenth!”

“Wal, Springer needs a schoolmarm at the ranch,” finally spoke up the practical Andy. “There’s half a dozen kids growin’ up without any schoolin’, not to talk about other ranches. I heard the boss say this hisself.”

“Who the mischief did it?” demanded Tex, in a rage with himself and his accomplices.

“What’s the sense in hollerin’ aboot thet now?” returned Nevada. “It’s done. She’s comin’. She’ll be on the Limited. Reckon we’ve got five hours. It ain’t enough. What’ll we do?”

“I can get awful drunk in thet time,” contributed Panhandle, nonchalantly.

“Ahuh! An’ leave it all to us,” retorted Tex, scornfully. “But we got to stand pat on this heah deal. Don’t you know this is Saturday an’ thet Springer will be in town?”

“Aw, confound it! We’re all goin’ to get fired,” declared Panhandle. “Serves us right for listenin’ to you, Tex. We can all gamble this trick hatched in your head.”

“Not my haid more’n yours or anybody,” returned Tex, hotly.

“Say, you locoed cow-punchers,” interposed Nevada. “What’ll we do?”

“We’ll have to tell Springer.”

“But Tex, the boss’d never believe us about not follerin’ the letters up. He’ll fire the whole outfit.”

“But he’ll have to be told somethin’,” returned Panhandle stoutly.

“Shore he will,” went on Tex. “I’ve an idea. It’s too late now to turn this poor schoolmarm back. An’ somebody’ll have to meet her. Somebody’s got to borrow a buckboard an’ drive her out to the ranch.”

“Excuse me!” replied Andy. And Panhandle and Nevada echoed him.

“I’ll ride over on my hoss, an’ see you all meet the lady,” added Andy.

Tex had lost his scowl, but he did not look as if he favorably regarded Andy’s idea. “Hang it all!” he burst out, hotly. “Can’t some of you gents look at it from her side of the fence? Nice fix for any woman, I say. Somebody ought to get it good for this mess. If I ever find out—”