“Why did he use Double A cattle?”

Mary paled.  “Don’t you see the hideous humor of that?  He knows Peggy Nyland and I are friends.  Dale is ruthless and subtle.  Can’t you understand how a man of that type would enjoy seeing me send my friend’s brother to his death—­and the brother innocent?”

“Why didn’t you tell Dale the cattle did not belong to you?”

Mary smiled faintly.  “I couldn’t.  To do so would have involved Ben Nyland in more trouble.  Dale would have got one of his friends to claim them.  And then I could have done nothing—­having disclaimed the ownership of the stock.  And I—­I couldn’t lie.  And, besides, I kept hoping that something would happen.  I had a premonition that something would happen.  And something did happen—­you came!”

“Yes,” said Sanderson inanely, “I came.”

He drew a large red handkerchief from a pocket and mopped some huge beads of sweat from his face and forehead.  When the handkerchief came out a sheet of paper, folded and crumpled, fluttered toward the floor, describing an eccentric circle and landing within a foot of Mary’s feet.

The girl saw that Sanderson had not noticed the loss of the paper, and she stooped and recovered it.  She held it in a hand while Sanderson continued to wipe the perspiration from his face, and noting that he was busily engaged she smoothed the paper on the table in front of her and peered mischievously at it.  And then, her curiosity conquering her, she read, for the writing on the paper was strangely familiar.

Sanderson having restored the handkerchief to its pocket, noticed Mary’s start, and saw her look at him, her eyes wide and perplexed.

“Why, Will, where did you get this?” she inquired, sitting very erect.

“Mebbe if you’d tell me what it is I could help you out,” he grinned.

“Why, it’s a letter father wrote to a man in Tombstone, Arizona.  See here!  Father’s name is signed to it!  I saw father write it.  Why, I rode over to Dry Bottom and mailed it!  This man had written to father a long time before, asking for a job.  I have his letter somewhere.  It was the oddest letter!  It was positively a gem of formality.  I can remember every word of it, for I must have read it a dozen times.  It ran: 

“Dear sir: 

“The undersigned has been at the location noted below for a term of years and desires to make a change.  If you have an opening for a good all-around man, the undersigned would be willing to work for you.  If you would want a recommendation, you can address Amos Burroughs, of the Pig-Pen Ranch, near Tombstone, where the undersigned is employed.

“Yours truly,

“Deal Sanderson.”

Mary leaned forward in her chair and looked at Sanderson with eager, questioning eyes.  Sanderson stared vacantly back at her.

She held the letter up to him.  “This is father’s answer, telling the man to come on.  How on earth did you get hold of it?”