sed him
greatly when at last he began to see his way toward working things out in
another fashion.

"I'm blessed if that won't put a spoke in his wheel," he thought
jubilantly, considering details. "He won't dare to touch me."

When dawn came filtering through the windows, and one thing after another
slowly emerged from the obscurity, Buck's eyes swiftly sought the floor
below Bud's bunk. But though McCabe lay there snoring loudly, the knife
had disappeared.

Though outwardly everything seemed normal, Buck noticed a slight
restlessness and laxing tension about the men that morning. There was
delay in getting to work, which might have been accounted for by the
cessation of one job and the starting of another. But knowing what he did,
Stratton felt that the flat failure of their plot had much to do with it.

He himself took advantage of the lull to slip away to the harness-room on
the plea of mending a rip in the stitching of his chaps. Pulling a box
over by the window where he could see anyone approaching, he produced
pencil and paper and proceeded to write out a rather voluminous document,
which he afterward read over and corrected carefully. He sealed it up in
an envelope, wrote a much briefer note, and enclosed both in a second
envelope which he addressed to Sheriff J. Hardenberg. Finally he felt
around in his pocket and pulled forth the scrawl he had composed the night
before.

"They look about the same," he murmured, comparing them. "Nobody will
notice the difference."

Buck was on the point of sealing the envelope containing the scrawl when
it occurred to him to read the contents over and see what he had written.

The letter was headed "Dear Friend," and proved to be a curious
composition. With a mind intent on other things, Stratton had written
almost mechanically, intending merely to give an air of reality to his
occupation. In the beginning the scrawl read very much as if the "friend"
were masculine. Bits of ranch happenings and descriptions were jotted down
as one would in writing to a cow-boy friend located on a distant outfit.
But gradually, imperceptibly almost, the tone shifted. Buck himself had
been totally unaware of any change until he read over the last few pages.
And then, as he took in the subtle undercurrent of meaning which lay
beneath the penciled lines, a slow flush crept up into his face, and he
frowned.

It was all rot, of course! He had merely written for the sake of writing
something