Moreau,--one care of the Rev. Jasper Strong,
Valentine, Nebraska, the other to the general delivery, Omaha?

Yes, that pouch brought in by Captain Blake had contained matter too
weighty for one woman, wise as she was, to keep to herself. Mrs. Blake,
with her husband's full consent, had summoned Mrs. Ray, soon after his
departure on the trail of Webb, and told her of the strange discovery.
They promptly decided there was only one thing to do with the
letter;--hand or send it, unopened, to Miss Flower. Then, as Blake had
had no time to examine further, they decided to search the pouch. There
might be more letters in the same superscription.

But there were not. They found tobacco, beeswax, an empty flask that had
contained whiskey, vaseline, Pond's Extract, salve, pigments, a few
sheets of note paper, envelopes and pencil--odd things to find in the
possession of a Sioux--a burning glass, matches, some quinine pills,
cigars, odds and ends of little consequence, and those letters addressed
to R. Moreau. The first one they had already decided should go to Miss
Flower. The others, they thought, should be handed unopened to the
commanding officer. They might contain important information, now that
the Sioux were at war and that Ralph Moreau had turned out probably to
be a real personage. But first they would consult Mrs. Dade. They had
done so the very evening of Blake's departure, even as he, long miles
away, was telling Kennedy his Irish heart was safe from the designs of
one blood-thirsty Sioux; and Mrs. Dade had agreed with them that
Nanette's letter should be sent to her forthwith, and that, as Captain
Blake had brought it in, the duty of returning the letter devolved upon
his wife.

And so, after much thought and consultation, a little note was written,
saying nothing about the other contents or about the pouch itself. "Dear
Miss Flower:" it read. "The enclosed was found by Captain Blake some
time this morning. He had no time to deliver it in person. Yours
sincerely. N. B. Blake."

She would enter into no explanation and would say nothing of the
consultation. She could not bring herself to sign her name as usually
she signed it, Nannie Bryan Blake. She had, as any man or woman would
have had, a consuming desire to know what Miss Flower could be writing
to a Mr. Moreau, whose correspondence turned up in this remarkable way,
in the pouch of a painted Sioux. But she and they deemed it entirely
needless to assure Miss Fl