We’re pardners in a cattle business, but I’m the silent one. Wal, to come back to yore hearin’, which is set for two o’clock, I’d like you to read thet letter to me.”

“Aw! Sheriff, what for?”

“Brazos, I really don’t have hear it. But it’ll strengthen my conviction, I’m shore. An’ I may have to talk turkey to Surface an’ some of his cattle association. All the same, I’ll respect yore confidence.”

“Shore. I—I’ll read it to yu,” replied Brazos. As he opened the letter his lean brown hands shook slightly.

“‘Don Carlos’s Rancho, Cimarron, N.M., May 2, 1880,’” he read, “‘Dear Brazos: This is the third letter I have written you since you left us five years ago. I am sure the others never reached you else you would have written, This time, however, I know you will receive this one. We have a railroad mail service now, caballero mio; and this epistle should reach your post office in less than two days. So near yet so far, Brazos!

“‘We heard that you had lately ridden down from Wyoming to a job with the Two-bar X outfit. A cattleman neighbour of ours, Calhoun, had just returned from Latimer, and he met Britt at the station. Calhoun told Britt a lot of range gossip, including your latest exploit at Casper, Wyoming (which I did not believe), and poor Britt came home like a man who had seen ghosts.

“‘Since you and your outfit broke up the Slaughter gang and did away with Sewall McCoy, Clements and their tools, we have no rustling on a big scale. Strange to say, we were never drawn into the Lincoln County War. That terrible feud accounted for the lives of three hundred men, surely the bloodiest war the West ever knew. Billy the Kid came out of it alive. He and a few of his desperado allies still actively rustle cattle and find a ready market.

“‘Well, the good, bad old days are over, at least for Don Carlos’s Rancho. We are running over seventy thousand head. The railroad has simplified cattle-raising. The long, hard drives are a thing of the past in this territory.

“‘Brazos, I am wonderfully happy. Renn is a big man on the New Mexico ranges and long ago has lived down that vague hard name that came with him from Dodge and Abilene. My father’s traditions and work have been carried on. We have our darling little boy and—dare I confess it?—expect another little Frayne at no distant date. May it be a girl—Senorita Holly Ripple Frayne? I forgot to tell you that my riders have a share in our cattle business. In fact, Brazos, there is only one drop of bitterness to taint the sweet cup of Don Carlos’s Rancho. And that is your loss, your wandering life, your bitter, fiery spirit, and your fate to throw a gun, your inevitable fall.

“‘Brazos, in this letter you have come to the end of your rope. You will stop your wandering—your drinking. You must find a steady job—if you refuse to return to Don Carlos’s Rancho—and you will be worthy of my faith and Renn’s regard, and the love of these cowboys.

“‘This is the last letter I shall ever write you, my friend. I hope and pray you take it as I have written it, and that you will consider my husband’s proposition, which follows in a postscript. Adios, Senor. Ever yours faithfully, Holly Ripple Frayne.

“‘P.S.