Shoop had long since given up trying to dictate letters.  Instead he wrote what he wished to say on slips of paper which his clerk cast into conventional form.  The genial Bud’s written directions were brief and to the point.

Among the many letters received was one from a writer of Western stories, applying for a lease upon which to build a summer camp.  His daughter’s health was none too good, and he wanted to be in the mountains.  Shoop studied the letter.  He had a vague recollection of having heard of the writer.  The request was legitimate.  There was no reason for not granting it.

Shoop called in his stenographer.  “Ever read any of that fella’s books?”

“Who?  Bronson?  Yes.  He writes bang-up Western stories.”

“He does, eh?  Well, you get hold of one of them stories.  I want to read it.  I’ve lived in the West a few minutes myself.”

A week later Shoop had made his decision.  He returned a shiny, new volume to the clerk.

“I never took to writin’ folks reg’lar,” he told the clerk.  “Mebby I got the wrong idee of ’em.  Now I reckon some of them is human, same as you and me.  Why, do you know I been through lots of them things he writes about.  And, by gollies, when I read that there gun-fight down in Texas, I ketched myself feelin’ along my hip, like I was packin’ a gun.  And when I read about that cowboy’s hoss,—­the one with the sarko eye and the white legs,—­why, I ketched myself feelin’ for my ole bandanna to blow my nose.  An’ I seen dead hosses a-plenty.  But you needn’t to say nothin’ about that in the letter.  Just tell him to mosey over and we’ll talk it out.  If a man what knows hosses and folks like he does wa’n’t raised in the West, he ought to been.  Heard anything from Adams?”

“He was in last week.  He’s up on Baldy.  Packed some stuff up to the lookout.”

“Uh-uh.  Now, the land next to my shack on the Blue ain’t a bad place for this here writer.  I got the plat, and we can line out the five acres this fella wants from my corner post.  But he’s comin’ in kind of late to build a camp.”

“It will be good weather till December,” said the clerk.

“Well, you write and tell him to come over.  Seen anything of Hardy and his men lately?”

“Not since last Tuesday.”

“Uh-uh.  They’re millin’ around like a lot of burros—­and gettin’ nowhere.  But Jim Waring’s out after that bunch that got Pat.  If I wasn’t so hefty, I’d ‘a’ gone with him.  I tell you the man that got Pat ain’t goin’ to live long to brag on it.”

“They say it was the Brewster boys,” ventured the stenographer.

“They say lots of things, son.  But Jim Waring knows.  God help the man that shot Pat when Jim Waring meets up with him.  And I want to tell you somethin’.  Be kind of careful about repeatin’ what ‘they say’ to anybody.  You got nothin’ to back you up if somebody calls your hand.  ‘They’ ain’t goin’ to see you through.  And you named the Brewster boys.  Now, just suppose one of the Brewster boys heard of it and come over askin’ you what you meant?  I bet you a new hat Jim Waring ain’t said Brewster’s name to a soul—­and he knows.  I’m goin’ over to Stacey.  Any mail the stage didn’t get?”