Sanderson knelt beside the man.  From an inner pocket of the latter’s coat he drew a letter—­faded and soiled, as though it had been read much.  There was another letter—­a more recent one, undoubtedly, for the paper was in much better condition.

Sanderson looked at both envelopes, and finally selected the most soiled one.  He hesitated an instant, and then withdrew the contents and read: 

MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

Tucson, Arizona.

Dear brother will:  The last time I heard from you, you were in Tucson.  That was ten years ago, and it seems an awful long time.  I suppose it is too much to hope that you are still there, but it is that hope which is making me write this letter.

Will, father is dead.  He died yesterday, right after I got here.  He asked for you.  Do you know what that means?  It means he wanted you to come back, Will.  Poor father, he didn’t really mean to be obstinate, you know.

I shall not write any more, for I am not sure that you will ever read it.  But if you do read it, you’ll come back, won’t you—­or write?  Please.

Your loving sister,

Mary Bransford.

The Double A Ranch.

Union County, New Mexico.

Sanderson finished reading the letter.  Then folding it, he shoved it back into the envelope and gravely drew out the other letter.  It bore a later date and was in the same handwriting: 

MR. WILLIAM BRANSFORD,

Tucson, Arizona.

Dear brother will:  I was so delighted to get your letter.  And I am so eager to see you.  It has been such a long, long time, hasn’t it?  Fifteen years, isn’t it?  And ten years since I even got a letter from you!

I won’t remember you, I am sure, for I am only nineteen now, and you were only fifteen when you left home.  And I suppose you have grown big and strong, and have a deep, booming voice and a fierce-looking mustache.  Well, I shall love you, anyway.  So hurry and come home.

I am sending you a telegraph money order for one thousand dollars, for from the tone of your letter it seems things are not going right with you.  Hurry home, won’t you?

With love,

Your sister,

Mary.

Sanderson finished reading the letter.  He meditated silently, turning it over and over in his hands.  The last letter was dated a month before.  Evidently Bransford had not hurried.

Sanderson searched all the other pockets, and discovered nothing of further interest.  Then he stood for a long time, looking down at the man’s face, studying it, his own face expressing disapproval.

“Mebbe it’s just as well that he didn’t get to the Double A,” he thought, noting the coarse, brutal features of the other.