rn West, but her mother
was vastly interested.

In those days photography was not a matter of universal luxury as it is
now, and the enterprising Skidmore was practically the first to introduce
it as a money-maker in the widely scattered ranches of the cow country.

"How do yuh sell 'em?" asked Martha Bissell, fluttering with the
possibilities of the next morning, the time the young man had set for his
operation. Martha had not been "took" since that far-off trip "East" to
St. Paul, when she and Henry had posed for daguerreotypes.

"Five dollars apiece, ma'am," said Skidmore, "and they're cheap at the
price." And they were, since the cost of something universally desired is
dependent on the supply rather than the demand.

After supper Martha retired to her bedroom to overhaul her stock of
"swell" dresses, a stock that had not been disturbed in fifteen years
except for the spring cleaning and airing. This left Skidmore and Juliet
alone. She civilly invited him out on the veranda, seeing he was a man of
some quality.

"I had a queer experience to-day," he remarked after a few commonplaces.
"I was riding to the Bar T from the Circle-Arrow and was about twenty
miles away, rounding a butte, when a man rode out to me from some place of
concealment.

"When he reached me he suddenly pulled his gun and covered me.

"'Where are you goin'?' he said. I told him I was on my way here and why.
He examined my outfit suspiciously and let me go. But first he said:

"'Take this letter to the Bar T and give it to Miss Bissell.'" Skidmore
reached inside his shirt and pulled forth a square envelope, which he
handed to Juliet. "The whole thing was so strange," the photographer went
on, "that I have waited until I could see you alone so that I could tell
you about it."

Juliet, surprised and startled, turned the missive over in her hands,
hopeful that it was a letter from Bud and yet fearful of something that
she could not explain. When Skidmore had finished she excused herself and
went into her room, closing the door behind her.

On the envelope was the simple inscription, "Miss Bissell," written in a
crabbed, angular hand. This satisfied her that the message was not from
Bud, and with trembling fingers she opened it. Inside was an oblong sheet
of paper filled with the same narrow handwriting. Going to the window to
catch the dying light, she read:

Miss:

This is to tell yuh that Mr. Larkin who yuh love is already merried.