"Daddy Wampole's ranch is our post office," explained Allen, as they rode along side by side. "The mail comes down from Deadwood once a week. It s not very extensive and Wampole usually puts everything in a soap box and lets every comer pick out whatever belongs to him."
Noel laughed. "I've heard of such doings before," he said. "I suppose he has another box of letters to be mailed."
"Exactly."
"It's not a very safe way to do. Letters might easily be stolen or taken by mistake. Who knows but what some communication from your uncle was carried off by another?"
Allen's face grew serious. "I never thought of that. But who would be mean enough to do it?"
"The man who sent that forged letter to me would be mean enough."
"So he would! I must ask Wampole if he remembers any letter addressed to us."
It was now the hottest part of the day. The road was dry and dusty and the horses hung out their tongues as they toiled onward. All were glad when they reached a portion of the road overhung by huge rocks a hundred feet or more in height.
