This time—­so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion upon Alva Dale’s head—­he stood in the center of the room, grinning saturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a complete confession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matter what Mary thought of him.

He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter.  He could have invented some pretext.  But he would not; he would not have her think he had been examining her letters.  One thing he could do without confessing that he had been prying—­and he did it.

At dinner he remarked casually to Mary: 

“I reckon you don’t think enough of my letters put them away as keepsakes?”

“Sanderson’s or Bransford’s?” she returned, looking at him with a smile.

“Both,” he grinned.

“Well,” she said, “I did keep both.  But, as I told you before, I had the Sanderson letter somewhere.  I have been looking for it, but have not been able to find it.”

Sanderson grinned faintly and wondered what she would say if she knew what care he had taken to burn the Sanderson letter.

“The letter you wrote as yourself—­the Bransford letter—­I have.  It was among a lot of others in the drawer of the dresser in your room.  I was looking them over while you were gone, and I took it.”

Sanderson had a hard time to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but he did so: 

“You got it handy?”

She looked straight at him.  “That is the oddest thing,” she said seriously.  “I took it from there to keep it safe, and I have mislaid it again, for I can’t find it anywhere.”

There was no guile in her eyes—­Sanderson was certain of that.  And he hoped the letter would stay mislaid.  He grinned.

“Well, I was only curious,” he said.  “Don’t bother to look for it.”

He felt better when he went out of the house and walked toward the corral fence.  He felt more secure and capable.  Beginning with the following day, he meant to take charge of the ranch and run it as he knew it should be run.

He had not been at the Double A long, but he had seen signs of shiftlessness here and there.  He had no doubt that since Bransford’s death the men had taken advantage of the absence of authority to relax, and the ranch had suffered.  He would soon bring them back to a state of efficiency.

He heard a step behind him, and looking over his shoulder he saw the little man approaching.

The little man joined Sanderson, not speaking as he climbed the fence at a point near by and sat on the top rail, idly swinging his legs.

Sanderson had conceived a liking for Owen.  There was something about the little man that invited it.  He was little, and manly despite his bodily defects.  But there was a suggestion of effeminacy mingling with the manliness of him that aroused the protective instinct in Sanderson.