“I want to know what you consider the most important event that can happen in this country,” said I, again, enunciating each word with slow clearness.

The throat and lips of Mr. McLean moved, and a sulky sound came forth that I recognized to be meant for the word “War.”  Then he rolled over so that his face was away from me, and put an arm over his eyes.

“I don’t mean country in the sense of United States,” said I.  “I mean this country here, and Bear Creek, and—­well, the ranches southward for fifty miles, say.  Important to this section.”

“Mosquitoes’ll be due in about three weeks,” said Lin.  “Yu’ might leave a man rest till then.”

“I want your opinion,” said I.

“Oh, misery!  Well, a raise in the price of steers.”

“No.”

“Yu’ said yu’ wanted my opinion,” said Lin.  “Seems like yu’ merely figure on givin’ me yours.”

“Very well,” said I.  “Very well, then.”

I took up a copy of the Cheyenne Sun.  It was five weeks old, and I soon perceived that I had read it three weeks ago; but I read it again for some minutes now.

“I expect a railroad would be more important,” said Mr. McLean, persuasively, from the floor.

“Than a rise in steers?” said I, occupied with the Cheyenne Sun.  “Oh yes.  Yes, a railroad certainly would.”

“It’s got to be money, anyhow,” stated Lin, thoroughly wakened.  “Money in some shape.”

“How little you understand the real wants of the country!” said I, coming to the point.  “It’s a girl.”

Mr. McLean lay quite still on the floor.

“A girl,” I repeated.  “A new girl coming to this starved country.”

The cow-puncher took a long, gradual stretch and began to smile.  “Well,” said he, “yu’ caught me—­if that’s much to do when a man is half-witted with dinner and sleep.”  He closed his eyes again and lay with a specious expression of indifference.  But that sort of thing is a solitary entertainment, and palls.  “Starved,” he presently muttered.  “We are kind o’ starved that way I’ll admit.  More dollars than girls to the square mile.  And to think of all of us nice, healthy, young—­bet yu’ I know who she is!” he triumphantly cried.  He had sat up and levelled a finger at me with the throw-down jerk of a marksman.  “Sidney, Nebraska.”

I nodded.  This was not the lady’s name—­he could not recall her name—­but his geography of her was accurate.

One day in February my friend, Mrs. Taylor over on Bear Creek, had received a letter—­no common event for her.  Therefore, during several days she had all callers read it just as naturally as she had them all see the new baby, and baby and letter had both been brought out for me.  The letter was signed,

“Ever your afectionite frend. 
“Katie Peck,