From Missouri by Zane Grey - HTML preview

From Missouri

“The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place since you came,” went on Texas.

With jingling spurs a tall cowboy stalked out of the post-office to confront his three comrades crossing the wide street from the saloon opposite. “Look heah,” he said, shoving a letter under their noses. “Which one of you long-horns has wrote her again?”

From a gay, careless trio his listeners suddenly grew blank, then intensely curious. They stared at the handwriting on the letter. “Tex, I’m a son-of-a-gun if it ain’t from Missouri!” ejaculated Andy Smith, his lean, red face bursting into a smile.

“It shore is,” declared Nevada.

“From Missouri!” echoed Panhandle Ames.

“Wal?” queried Tex, almost with a snort.

The three cowboys jerked up to look from Tex to one another, and then back at Tex.

“It’s from her,” went on Tex, his voice hushing on the pronoun. “You all know thet handwritin’. Now how aboot this deal? We swore none of us would write again to this heah schoolmarm. Some one of you has double-crossed the outfit.” Loud and unified protestations of innocence emanated from his comrades. But it was evident Tex did not trust them, and that they did not trust him or each other. “Say, boys,” said Panhandle, suddenly. “I see Beady in there lookin’ darn sharp at us. Let’s get off in the woods somewhere.”

“Back to the bar,” replied Nevada. “I reckon we’ll all need stimulants.”

“Beady!” ejaculated Tex, as they turned across the street. “He could be to blame as much as any of us.”

“Shore. It’d be more like Beady,” replied Nevada. “But Tex, yore mind ain’t workin’. Our lady friend from Missouri has wrote before without gettin’ any letter from us.”

“How do we know thet?” demanded Tex, suspiciously. “Shore the boss’ typewriter is a puzzle, but it could hide tracks. Savvy, pards?”

“Gee, Tex, you need a drink,” returned Panhandle, peevishly.

They entered the saloon and strode to the bar, where from all appearances Tex was not the only one to seek artificial strength. Then they repaired to a corner, where they took seats and stared at the letter Tex threw down before them. “From Missouri, all right,” averred Panhandle, studying the postmark. “Kansas City, Missouri.”

“It’s her writin’,” added Nevada, in awe. “Shore I’d know thet out of a million letters.”

“Ain’t you goin’ to read it to us?” queried Andy Smith.

“Mister Frank Owens,” replied Tex, reading from the address on the letter. “Springer’s Ranch. Beacon, Arizona.... Boys, this heah Frank Owens is all of us.”

“Huh! Mebbe he’s a darn sight more,” added Andy.

“Looks like a low-down trick we’re to blame for,” resumed Tex, seriously shaking his hawk-like head. “Heah we reads in a Kansas City paper aboot a school teacher wantin’ a job out in dry Arizonie. An’ we ups an’ writes her an’ gets her ararin’ to come. Then when she writes and tells us she’s not over forty—then we quits like yellow coyotes. An’ we four anyhow shook hands on never writin’ her again. Wal, somebody did, an’ I reckon you-all think me as big a liar as I think you. But thet ain’t the point. Heah’s another letter to Mister Owens an’ I’ll bet my saddle it means trouble. Shore I’m plumb afraid to read it.”

“Say, give it to me,” demanded Andy. “I ain’t afraid of any woman.”

Tex snatched the letter out of Andy’s hand. “Cowboy, you’re too poor educated to read letters from ladies,” observed Tex. “Gimme a knife, somebody ... Say, it’s all perfumed.”

Tex impressively spread out the letter and read laboriously:

Kansas City, Mo.,
June 15.

Dear Mr. Owens:

Your last letter has explained away much that was vague and perplexing in your other letters. It has inspired me with hope and anticipation. I shall not take time now to express my thanks, but hasten to get ready to go West. I shall leave tomorrow and arrive at Beacon on June 19, at 4:30 P. M. You see I have studied the time-table.

Yours very truly,
Jane Stacey.

Profound silence followed Tex’s perusal of the letter. The cowboys were struck dumb. But suddenly Nevada exploded: “My Gawd, fellars, today’s the nineteenth!”

“Wal, Springer needs a schoolmarm at the ranch,” finally spoke up the practical Andy. “There’s half a dozen kids growin’ up without any schoolin’, not to talk about other ranches. I heard the boss say this hisself.”

“Who the mischief did it?” demanded Tex, in a rage with himself and his accomplices.

“What’s the sense in hollerin’ aboot thet now?” returned Nevada. “It’s done. She’s comin’. She’ll be on the Limited. Reckon we’ve got five hours. It ain’t enough. What’ll we do?”

“I can get awful drunk in thet time,” contributed Panhandle, nonchalantly.

“Ahuh! An’ leave it all to us,” retorted Tex, scornfully. “But we got to stand pat on this heah deal. Don’t you know this is Saturday an’ thet Springer will be in town?”

“Aw, confound it! We’re all goin’ to get fired,” declared Panhandle. “Serves us right for listenin’ to you, Tex. We can all gamble this trick hatched in your head.”

“Not my haid more’n yours or anybody,” returned Tex, hotly.

“Say, you locoed cow-punchers,” interposed Nevada. “What’ll we do?”

“We’ll have to tell Springer.”

“But Tex, the boss’d never believe us about not follerin’ the letters up. He’ll fire the whole outfit.”

“But he’ll have to be told somethin’,” returned Panhandle stoutly.

“Shore he will,” went on Tex. “I’ve an idea. It’s too late now to turn this poor schoolmarm back. An’ somebody’ll have to meet her. Somebody’s got to borrow a buckboard an’ drive her out to the ranch.”

“Excuse me!” replied Andy. And Panhandle and Nevada echoed him.

“I’ll ride over on my hoss, an’ see you all meet the lady,” added Andy.

Tex had lost his scowl, but he did not look as if he favorably regarded Andy’s idea. “Hang it all!” he burst out, hotly. “Can’t some of you gents look at it from her side of the fence? Nice fix for any woman, I say. Somebody ought to get it good for this mess. If I ever find out—”

“Go on with your grand idea,” interposed Nevada.

“You all come with me. I’ll get a buckboard. I’ll meet the lady an’ do the talkin’. I’ll let her down easy. An’ if I cain’t head her back to Missouri we’ll fetch her out to the ranch an’ then leave it up to Springer. Only we won’t tell her or him or anybody who’s the real Frank Owens.”

“Tex, that ain’t so plumb bad,” declared Andy, admiringly. “What I want to know is who’s goin’ to do the talkin’ to the boss?” queried Panhandle. “It mightn’t be so hard to explain now. But after drivin’ up to the ranch with a woman! You all know Springer’s shy. Young an’ rich, like he is, an’ a bachelor—he’s been fussed over so he’s plumb afraid of girls. An’ here you’re fetchin’ a middle-aged schoolmarm who’s romantic an’ mushy! Shucks! .... I say send her home on the next train.”

“Pan, you’re wise on hosses an’ cattle, but you don’t know human nature, an’ you’re daid wrong about the boss,” rejoined Tex. “We’re in a bad fix, I’ll admit. But I lean more to fetchin’ the lady up than sendin’ her back. Somebody down Beacon way would get wise. Mebbe the schoolmarm might talk. She’d shore have cause. An’ suppose Springer hears aboot it—that some of us or all of us played a low-down trick on a woman. He’d be madder at that than if we fetched her up. Likely he’ll try to make amends. The boss may be shy on girls but he’s the squarest man in Arizonie. My idea is we’ll deny any of us is Frank Owens, an’ we’ll meet Miss—Miss—what was that there name? ... Miss Jane Stacey and fetch her up to the ranch, an’ let her do the talkin’ to Springer.”

During the next several hours, while Tex searched the town for a buckboard and team he could borrow, the other cowboys wandered from the saloon to the post-office and back again, and then to the store, the restaurant and all around. The town had gradually filled up with Saturday visitors. “Boys, there’s the boss,” suddenly broke out Andy, pointing; and he ducked into the nearest doorway, which happened to be that of another saloon. It was half full of cowboys, ranchers, Mexicans, tobacco smoke and noise. Andy’s companions had rushed pell-mell after him; and not until they all got inside did they realize that this saloon was a rendezvous for cowboys decidedly not on friendly terms with Springer’s outfit. Nevada was the only one of the trio who took the situation nonchalantly.

“Wal, we’re in, an’ what the mischief do we care for Beady Jones, an’ his outfit?” remarked Nevada, quite loud enough to be heard by others beside his friends.

Naturally they lined up at the bar, and this was not a good thing for young men who had an important engagement and who must preserve sobriety.

After several rounds of drinks they began to whisper and snicker over the possibility of Tex meeting the boss.

“If only it doesn’t come off until Tex gets our forty-year-old schoolmarm from Missourie with him in the buckboard!” exclaimed Panhandle, in huge glee.

“Shore. Tex, the handsome galoot, is most to blame for this mess,” added Nevada. “Thet cowboy won’t be above makin’ love to Jane, if he thinks we’re not around. But, fellars, we want to be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss seein’ the boss meet Tex for a million!” said Andy.

Presently a tall, striking-looking cowboy, with dark face and small bright eyes like black beads, detached himself from a group of noisy companions, and confronted the trio, more particularly Nevada. “Howdy, men,” he greeted them, “what you-all doin’ in here?”

He was coolly impertinent, and his action and query noticeably stilled the room. Andy and Panhandle leaned back against the bar. They had been in such situations before and knew who would do the talking for them. “Howdy, Jones,” replied Nevada, coolly and carelessly. “We happened to bust in here by accident. Reckon we’re usually more particular what kind of company we mix with.”

“Ahuh! Springer’s outfit is shore a stuck-up one,” sneered Jones, in a loud tone. “So stuck-up they won’t even ride around drift-fences.”

Nevada slightly changed his position. “Beady, I’ve had a couple of drinks an’ ain’t very clear-headed,” drawled Nevada. “Would you mind talkin’ so I can understand you?”

“Bah! You savvy all right,” declared Jones, sarcastically. “I’m tellin’ you straight what I’ve been layin’ to tell your yaller-headed Texas pard.”

“Now you’re speakin’ English, Beady. Tex an’ me are pards, shore. An’ I’ll take it kind of you to get this talk out of your system. You seem to be chock full.”

“You bet I’m full an’ I’m goin’ to bust,” shouted Jones, whose temper evidently could not abide the slow, cool speech with which he had been answered.

“Wal, before you bust, explain what you mean by Springer’s outfit not ridin’ around drift-fences.”

“Easy. You just cut through wire-fences,” retorted Jones.

“Beady, I hate to call you a low-down liar, but that’s what you are.”

“You’re another,” yelled Jones. “I seen your Texas Jack cut our drift-fence.” Nevada struck out with remarkable swiftness and force. He knocked Jones over upon a card-table, with which he crashed to the floor. Jones was so stunned that he did not recover before some of his comrades rushed to him, and helped him up. Then, black in the face and cursing savagely, he jerked for his gun. He got it out, but before he could level it, two of his friends seized him, and wrestled with him, talking in earnest alarm. But Jones fought them.

“You blame fool,” finally yelled one of them. “He’s not packin’ a gun. It’d be murder.”

That brought Jones to his senses, though certainly not to calmness. “Mister Nevada—next time you hit town you’d better come heeled,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Shore. An’ thet’ll be bad for you, Beady,” replied Nevada, curtly. Panhandle and Andy drew Nevada out to the street, where they burst into mingled excitement and anger. Their swift strides gravitated toward the saloon across from the post-office. When they emerged sometime later they were arm in arm, and far from steady on their feet. They paraded up the one main street of Beacon, not in the least conspicuous on a Saturday afternoon. As they were neither hilarious nor dangerous, nobody paid any particular attention to them. Springer, their boss, met them, gazed at them casually, and passed without sign of recognition. If he had studied the boys closely he might have received an impression that they were hugging a secret, as well as each other. In due time the trio presented themselves at the railroad station. Tex was there, nervously striding up and down the platform, now and then looking at his watch. The afternoon train was nearly due. At the hitching-rail below the platform stood a new buckboard and a rather spirited team of horses.

The boys, coming across the wide square, encountered this evidence of Tex’s extremity, and struck a posture before it. “Livery shable outfit, by gosh,” said Andy.

“Thish here Tex spendin’ his money royal,” agreed Nevada.

Then Tex espied them. He stared. Suddenly he jumped straight up. Striding to the edge of the platform, with face as red as a beet, he began to curse them. “Whash masher, ole pard?” asked Andy, who appeared a little less stable than his comrades.

Tex’s reply was another volley of expressive profanity. And he ended with: “—you—all yellow quitters to get drunk an’ leave me in the lurch. But you gotta get away from heah. I shore won’t have you about when thet train comes.”

“Tex, yore boss is in town lookin’ for you,” said Nevada.

“Tex, he jest ambled past us like we wasn’t gennelmen,” added Panhandle. “Never sheen us atall.”

“No wonder, you drunken cow-punchers,” declared Tex, in disgust. “Now I tell you to clear out of heah.”

“But pard, we just want shee you meet our Jane from Missouri,” replied Andy.

Just then a shrill whistle announced the train. “You can sneak off now,” he went on, “an’ leave me to face the music. I always knew I was the only gentleman in Springer’s outfit.”

The three cowboys did not act upon Tex’s sarcastic suggestion, but they hung back, looking at once excited and sheepish and hugely delighted. The long gray dusty train pulled into the station and stopped. There was only one passenger for Springer—a woman—and she alighted from the coach near where the cowboys stood waiting. She wore a long linen coat and a brown veil that completely hid her face. She was not tall and she was much too slight for the heavy valise the porter handed to her.

Tex strode grandly toward her. “Miss—Miss Stacey, ma’am?” he asked, removing his sombrero.

“Yes,” she replied. “Are you Mr. Owens?”

Evidently the voice was not what Tex had expected and it disconcerted him. “No ma’am I—I’m not Mister Owens,” he said. “Please let me take your bag ... I’m Tex Dillon, one of Springer’s cowboys. An’ I’ve come to meet you—an’ fetch you out to the ranch.”

“Thank you, but I—I expected to be met by Mr. Owens,” she replied.

“Ma’am, there’s been a mistake—I’ve got to tell you—there ain’t any Mister Owens,” blurted out Tex, manfully.

“Oh!” she said, with a little start.

“You see, it was this way,” went on the confused cowboy. “One of Springer’s cowboys—not me—wrote them letters to you, signin’ his name Owens. There ain’t no such named cowboy in this county. Your last letter—an’ here it is—fell into my hands—all by accident. Ma’am, it sure was. I took my three friends heah—I took them into my confidence. An’ we all came down to meet you.” She moved her head and evidently looked at the strange trio of cowboys Tex had pointed out as his friends. They came forward then, but not eagerly, and they still held to each other. Their condition, not to consider their immense excitement, could not have been lost even upon a tenderfoot from Missouri.

“Please return my—my letter,” she said, turning again to Tex, and she put out a small gloved hand to take it from him. “Then—there is no Mr. Frank Owens?”

“No Ma’am, there isn’t,” replied Tex miserably, and waited for her to speak.

“Is there—no—no truth in his—is there no school teacher wanted here?” she faltered.

“I think so, Ma’am,” he replied. “Springer said he needed one. That’s what started the advertisement an’ the letters to you. You can see the boss an’—an’ explain. I’m sure it will be all right. He’s the grandest fellow. He won’t stand for no joke on a poor old schoolmarm.” In his bewilderment Tex had spoken his thoughts, and that last slip made him look more miserable than ever, and made the boys appear ready to burst.

“‘Poor old schoolmarm!’” echoed Miss Stacey. “Perhaps the deceit has not been wholly on one side.” Whereupon she swept aside the enveloping veil to reveal a pale and pretty face. She was young. She had clear gray eyes and a sweet, sensitive mouth. Little curls of chestnut hair straggled from under her veil. And she had tiny freckles.

Tex stared at this apparition. “But you—you—the letter says she wasn’t over forty,” he ejaculated.

“She’s not,” rejoined Miss Stacey, curtly.

Then there were visible and remarkable indications of a transformation in the attitude of the cowboy. But the approach of a stranger suddenly seemed to paralyze him. This fellow was very tall. He strolled up to them. He was booted and spurred. He had halted before the group and looked expectantly from the boys to the young woman and back again. But on the moment the four cowboys appeared dumb. “Are—are you Mr. Springer?” asked Miss Stacey.

“Yes,” he replied, and he took off his sombrero. He had a dark, frank face and keen eyes.

“I am Jane Stacey,” she explained hurriedly. “I’m a school teacher. I answered an advertisement. And I’ve come from Missouri because of letters I received from a Mr. Frank Owens, of Springer’s Ranch. This young man met me. He has not been very—explicit. I gather that there is no Mr. Owens—that I’m the victim of a cowboy joke ... But he said that Mr. Springer won’t stand for a joke on a poor old schoolmarm.”

“I sure am glad to meet you, Miss Stacey,” responded the rancher, with the easy western courtesy that must have been comforting to her. “Please let me see the letters.” She opened a hand-bag, and searching in it presently held out several letters. Springer never even glanced at his stricken cowboys. He took the letters.

“No, not that one,” said Miss Stacey, blushing scarlet. “That’s one I wrote to Mr. Owens, but didn’t mail. It’s—hardly necessary to read that.” While Springer read the others she looked at him. Presently he asked for the letter she had taken back. Miss Stacey hesitated, then refused. He looked cool, serious, business-like. Then his keen eyes swept over the four cowboys.

“Tex, are you Mister Frank Owens?” he queried sharply.

“I—shore—ain’t,” gasped Tex.

Springer asked each of the other boys the same question and received decidedly maudlin but negative answers. Then he turned again to the girl. “Miss Stacey, I regret to say that you are indeed the victim of a low-down cowboy trick,” he said. “I’d apologize for such heathen if I knew how. All I can say is I’m sorry.”

“Then—then there isn’t any school to teach—any place for me—out here?” she asked, and there were tears in her eyes.

“That’s another matter,” he replied, with a winning smile. “Of course there’s a place for you. I’ve wanted a school teacher for a long time. Some of the men out at the ranch have kids an’ they sure need a teacher.”

“Oh, I’m—so glad,” she murmured, in great relief. “I was afraid I’d have to go—all the way back. You see I’m not so strong as I used to be—and my doctor advised a change of climate—dry western air. I can’t go back now.”

“You don’t look sick,” he said, with the keen eyes on her. “You look very well to me.”

“Oh, indeed, I’m not very strong,” she returned, quickly. “But I must confess I wasn’t altogether truthful about my age.”

“I was wondering about that,” he said, gravely. There seemed just a glint of a twinkle in his eye. “Not over forty.”

Again she blushed and this time with confusion. “It wasn’t altogether a lie. I was afraid to mention I was only—young. And I wanted to get the position so much ... I’m a good—a competent teacher, unless the scholars are too grown-up.”

“The scholars you’ll have at my ranch are children,” he replied. “Well, we’d better be starting if we are to get there before dark. It’s a long ride. Is this all your baggage?”

Springer led her over to the buckboard and helped her in, then stowed the valise under the back seat. “Here, let me put this robe over you,” he said. “It’ll be dusty. And when we’get up on the ridge it’s cold.” At this juncture Tex came to life and he started forward. But Andy and Nevada and Panhandle stood motionless, staring at the fresh and now flushed face of the young school teacher. Tex untied the halter of the spirited team and they began to prance. He gathered up the reins as if about to mount the buckboard.

“I’ve got all the supplies an’ the mail, Mr. Springer,” he said, cheerfully, “an’ I can be startin’ at once.”

“I’ll drive Miss Stacey,” replied Springer, dryly.

Tex looked blank for a moment. Then Miss Stacey’s clear gray eyes seemed to embarrass him. A tinge of red came into his tanned cheek. “Tex, you can ride my horse home,” said the rancher.

“That wild stallion of yours!” expostulated the cowboy. “Now Mr. Springer. I shore am afraid of him.” This from the best horseman on the whole range!

Apparently the rancher took Tex seriously.

“He sure is wild, Tex, and I know you’re a poor hand with a horse. If he throws you, why you’ll have your own horse.” Miss Stacey turned away her eyes. There was a hint of a smile on her lips. Springer got in beside her and, taking the reins without another glance at his discomfited cowboys, he drove away.

A few weeks altered many things at Springer’s Ranch.

There was a marvelous change in the dress and deportment of cowboys off duty. There were some clean and happy and interested children. There was a rather taciturn and lonely young rancher who was given to thoughtful dreams and whose keen eyes watched the little adobe schoolhouse under the cottonwoods. And in Jane Stacey’s face a rich bloom and tan had begun to warm out the paleness. It was not often that Jane left the schoolhouse without meeting one of Springer’s cowboys. She met Tex most frequently and, according to Andy, that fact was because Tex was foreman and could send the boys off to the ends of the range. And this afternoon Jane encountered the foreman. He was clean-shaven, bright and eager, a superb figure. Tex had been lucky enough to have a gun with him one day when a rattlesnake frightened the school teacher and he had shot the reptile. Miss Stacey had leaned against him in her fright; she had been grateful; she had admired his wonderful skill with a gun and had murmured that a woman always would be safe with such a man. Thereafter Tex packed his gun unmindful of the ridicule of his rivals. “Miss Stacey, come, for a little ride, won’t you?” he asked, eagerly.

The cowboys had already taught her how to handle a horse and to ride; and if all they said of her appearance and accomplishment were true she was indeed worth watching. “I’m sorry,” replied Jane. “I promised Nevada I’d ride with him today.”

“I reckon Nevada is miles an’ miles up the valley by now,” replied Tex. “He won’t be back till long after dark.”

“But he made an engagement with me,” protested the school mistress.

“An’ shore he has to work. He’s ridin’ for Springer, an’ I’m foreman of this ranch,” said Tex.

“You sent him off on some long chase,” averred Jane severely. “Now didn’t you? Tell me the truth.”

“I shore did. He comes crowin’ down to the bunk-house—about how he’s goin’ to ride with you an’ how we-all are not in the runnin’. I says, ‘Nevada, I reckon there’s a steer mired in the sand up in Cedar Wash. You ride up there an’ pull him out.’”

“And then what did he say?” inquired Jane, curiously.

“Why, Miss Stacey, shore I hate to tell you. I didn’t think he was so—so bad. He just used the most awful language as was ever heard on this heah ranch. Then he rode off.”

“But was there a steer mired up in the Wash?”

“I reckon so,” replied Tex, rather shamefacedly. “Most always is one.”

Jane let scornful eyes rest upon the foreman. “That was a mean trick,” she said.

“There’s been worse done to me by him, an’ all of them. An’ all’s fair in love an’ war.... Will you ride with me?”

“No. I think I’ll ride off alone up Cedar Wash and help Nevada find that mired steer.”

“Miss Stacey, you’re shore not goin’ to ride off alone. Savvy that?”

“Who’ll keep me from it?” demanded Jane, with spirit.

“I will. Or any of the boys, for thet matter. Springer’s orders.” Jane started with surprise and then blushed rosy red. Tex, also, appeared confused at his disclosure. “Miss Stacey, I oughtn’t have said that. It slipped out. The boss said we needn’t tell you, but you were to be watched an’ taken care of. It’s a wild range. You could get lost or thrown from a horse.”

“Mr. Springer is very kind and thoughtful,” murmured Jane.

“The fact is, this heah ranch is a different place since you came,” went on Tex as if emboldened. “An’ this beatin’ around the bush doesn’t suit me. All the boys have lost their haids over you.”

“Indeed? How flattering,” replied Jane, with just a hint of mockery. She was fond of all her admirers, but there were four of them she had not yet forgiven.

The tall foreman was not without spirit.

“It’s true all right, as you’ll find out pretty quick,” he replied. “If you had any eyes you’d see that cattle raisin’ on this heah ranch is about to halt till somethin’ is decided. Why, even Springer himself is sweet on you.”

“How dare you!” flashed Jane, suddenly aghast.

“I ain’t afraid to tell the truth,” declared Tex, stoutly. “He is. The boys all say so. He’s grouchier than ever. He’s jealous. He watches you—”

“Suppose I told him you had dared to say such things?” interrupted Jane, trembling on the verge of strange emotion.

“Why, he’d be tickled to death. He hasn’t got nerve enough to tell you himself.”

This cowboy, like all his comrades, was hopeless. She was about to attempt to change the conversation when Tex took her into his arms. She struggled—and fought with all her might. But he succeeded in kissing her cheek and then the tip of her ear. Finally she broke away from him. “Now—” she panted. “You’ve done it—you’ve insulted me. Now I’ll never ride with you again—even speak to you.”

“Shore I didn’t insult you,” replied Tex. “Jane—won’t you marry me?”

“No.”

“Won’t you be my sweetheart—till you care enough to—to—”

“No.”

“But, Jane, you’ll forgive me, an’ be good friends again?”

“Never!” Jane did not mean all she said. She had come to understand these men of the ranges—their loneliness—their hunger for love. But in spite of her sympathy and affection she needed sometimes to be cold and severe.

“Jane, you owe me a good deal—more than you’ve any idea,” said Tex, seriously. “You’d never have been here but for me,” he said, solemnly.

Jane could only stare at him.

“I meant to tell you long ago. But I shore didn’t have nerve. Jane, I—I was that there letter writin’ fellar. I wrote them letters you got. I am Frank Owens.”

“No!” exclaimed Jane. She was startled. That matter of Frank Owens had never been cleared up. It had ceased to rankle within her breast, but it had never been forgotten. She looked up earnestly into the big fellow’s face. It was like a mask. But she saw through it. He was lying. He was brazen. Almost she thought she saw a laugh deep in his eyes.

“I shore am thet lucky man who found you a job when you was sick an’ needed a change ... An’ thet you’ve grown so pretty an’ so well you owe all to me.”

“Tex, if you really were Frank Owens, that would make a great difference. I owe him everything. I would—but I don’t believe you are he.”

“It’s a sure honest gospel fact,” declared Tex. “I hope to die if it ain’t!”

Jane shook her head sadly at his monstrous prevarication. “I don’t believe you,” she said, and left him standing there.

It might have been mere coincidence that during the next few days both Nevada and Panhandle waylaid and conveyed to her intelligence by divers and pathetic arguments the astounding fact that each was Mr. Frank Owens. More likely, however,