“Maybe,” continued Flip to her father, without looking at her discomfited visitor, “ye’d better find out whether one of those officials comes up to this yer ranch to steal away a gal about my own size, or to get points about diamond-making.  I reckon he don’t travel round to find out who writes all the letters that go through the Post Office.”

The Postmaster had seemingly miscalculated the old man’s infirm temper, and the daughter’s skillful use of it.  He was unprepared for Flip’s boldness and audacity, and when he saw that both barrels of the accusation had taken effect on the charcoal-burner, who was rising with epileptic rage, he fairly turned and fled.  The old man would have followed him with objurgation beyond the door, but for the restraining hand of Flip.

Baffled and beaten, nevertheless Fate was not wholly unkind to the retreating suitor.  Near the Gin and Ginger Woods he picked up a letter which had fallen from Flip’s packet.  He recognized the writing, and did not scruple to read it.  It was not a love epistle,—­at least, not such a one as he would have written,—­it did not give the address nor the name of the correspondent; but he read the following with greedy eyes:—­

“Perhaps it’s just as well that you don’t rig yourself out for the benefit of those dead-beats at the Crossing, or any tramp that might hang round the ranch.  Keep all your style for me when I come.  I can’t tell you when, it’s mighty uncertain before the rainy season.  But I’m coming soon.  Don’t go back on your promise about lettin’ up on the tramps, and being a little more high-toned.  And don’t you give ’em so much.  It’s true I sent you hats twice.  I clean forgot all about the first; but I wouldn’t have given a ten-dollar hat to a nigger woman who had a sick baby because I had an extra hat.  I’d have let that baby slide.  I forgot to ask whether the skirt is worn separately; I must see that dressmaker sharp about it; but I think you’ll want something on besides a jacket and skirt; at least, it looks like it up here.  I don’t think you could manage a piano down there without the old man knowing it, and raisin’ the devil generally.  I promised you I’d let up on him.  Mind you keep all your promises to me.  I’m glad you’re gettin’ on with the six-shooter; tin cans are good at fifteen yards, but try it on suthin’ that moves!  I forgot to say that I am on the track of your big brother.  It’s a three years’ old track, and he was in Arizona.  The friend who told me didn’t expatiate much on what he did there, but I reckon they had a high old time.  If he’s above the earth I’ll find him, you bet.  The yerba buena and the southern wood came all right,—­they smelt like you.  Say, Flip, do you remember the last—­the very last—­thing that happened when you said ‘good-by’ on the trail?  Don’t let me ever find out that you’ve let anybody else kiss”—­

But here the virtuous indignation of the Postmaster found vent in an oath.  He threw the letter away.  He retained of it only two facts,—­Flip had a brother who was missing; she had a lover present in the flesh.