And Pete told her—­omitting no circumstance, albeit he did not accentuate that part of his recital having to do with Doris Gray, merely mentioning her as “that little gray-eyed nurse in El Paso”—­and in such an offhand manner that Ma Bailey began to suspect that Pete was keeping something to himself.  Finally, by a series of cross-questioning, comment, and sympathetic concurrence, she arrived at the feminine conclusion that the gray-eyed nurse in El Paso had set her cap for Pete—­of course Pete was innocent of any such adjustment of headgear—­to substantiate which she rose, and, stepping to the bedroom, returned with the letter which had caused her so much speculation as to who was writing to Pete, and why the letter had been directed to the Concho.

Pete glanced at the letter, and thanked Ma Bailey as he tucked it in his pocket.

“I don’t mind if you open it, Pete,” she told him.  “Goodness knows how long it’s been laying in the post-office!  And it, mebby, is important—­from that doctor, or that lawyer, mebby.  Oh, mebby it’s from the bank.  Sakes alive!  To think of that man leaving you all that money!  Mebby that bank has failed!”

“Well, I’d be right where I started when I first come here—­broke—­lookin’ for a job.”

“And the boys’ll worry you most to death if you try to read any letters in the bunk-house to-night.  They’re waitin’ to hear you talk.”

“Guess the letter can wait.  I ain’t such a fast reader, anyhow.”

“And you’re like to lose it, carryin’ it round.”

“I—­I—­reckon I better read it,” stammered Pete helplessly.

He felt somehow that Ma would feel slighted if he didn’t.  Ma Bailey watched his face as he read the rather brief note from Doris, thanking him for his letter to her and congratulating him on the outcome of his trial, and assuring him of her confidence in his ultimate success in life.  “Little Ruth,” wrote Doris, “cried bitterly when I told her that you had gone and would not come back.  She said that when you said ‘good-bye’ to her you promised to come back—­and of course I had to tell her that you would, just to make her happy.  She has lost all interest in the puzzle game since you left, but that queer watch that you gave her, that has to be shaken before taken—­and then not taken seriously—­amuses her quite a bit.  She gets me to wind it up—­her fingers are not strong enough—­and then she laughs as the hands race around.  When they stop she puts her finger on the hour and says, ‘Pitty soon Pete come back.’  Little Ruth misses you very much.”

Pete folded the letter and put it in his pocket.  “From a friend of mine,” he said, flushing slightly.

Ma Bailey sighed, smiled, and sighed again.  “You’re just itching to go see the boys.  Well, run along, and tell Jim not to set up all night.”  Ma Bailey rose, and stepping to the bedroom returned with some blankets.  “You’ll have your old bunk.  It’s yours just as long as you want to stay, Pete.  And—­and I hope that girl in El Paso—­is a—­a nice—­sensible—­”