Fred scolded, his long patience with his friend's weakness breaking fretfully. 'Whenever you git in a hurry to go some place you begin gittin' up and settin' down like you had a bee under you."
"I know I do, Fred. But I'm workin' hard to get over it."
"You're comin' on all right, too, you're doin' fine—only when you git a little excited. You stick around with me three or four months and you'll ride like a man with the bark on."
"I hope so, Fred."
"Yes, I'll bet a dime that's old Manuel, and I ain't seen that old feller since Peter Nearing was superintendent of this ranch. He rides with his wings out, like an Indian. The one that's with him's a cowpuncher. He's a stranger to me."
Fred was right in his identification of Manuel, the Mexican from the ranch. He was unsaddling the two horses at the corral when the two wranglers rode into camp, the companion of his journey being nowhere in sight. Manuel returned Fred's rather patronizing greeting with low-spoken word, and dignity that wore the mask of meekness, according to his kind.
Manuel immediately produced a letter from the pocket of his shirt and delivered it to Barrett, following it by opening his saddle pouch and discovering several more. But his manner of delivering the one that he carried close to his person bore with it an unspoken injunction to mark its importance above all the rest.
This letter bore no stamp; it was addressed only with Barrett's name. Manuel paused, the other letters
