wo or three Indians sat stolidly on the porch as Helen rode up. She had
learned that the old horse was not given to running away. He might roll,
to rid himself of the flies, but he was not even likely to do that with
the saddle on, so Helen did not trouble to tie him to the rack. She let
the reins drop to the ground and walked past the Indians into the store,
where Bill Talpers was watching her greedily from behind his
postmaster's desk.

"You are postmaster here, Mr. Talpers, aren't you?" asked Helen, with a
slight acknowledgment of the trader's greeting.

Bill admitted that Uncle Sam had so honored him.

"I'm looking for a letter that was mailed here by Wong, and should be
back from Quaking-Asp Grove by this time. It had a return address on it,
and I understand the person to whom it was sent did not receive it."

Talpers leaned forward mysteriously and fixed his animal-like gaze on
Helen.

"I know why he didn't git it," said Bill. "He didn't git it because he
was murdered."

Helen turned white, and her riding-whip ceased its tattoo on her boot.
She grasped at the edge of the counter for support, and Bill smiled
triumphantly. He had played a big card and won, and now he was going to
let this girl know who was master.

"There ain't no use of your feelin' cut up," he went on. "If you and me
jest understand each other right, there ain't no reason why any one else
should know about that letter."

"You held it up and it never reached Quaking-Asp Grove!" exclaimed
Helen. "You're the real murderer. I can have you put in prison for
tampering with the mails."

The last shot did not make Bill blink. He had been looking for it.

"Ye-es, you might have me put in prison. I admit that," he said,
stroking his sparse black beard, "but you ain't goin' to, because I'd
feel in duty bound to say that I jest held up the letter in the
interests of justice, and turn the hull thing over to the authorities.
Old Fussbudget Tom Redmond is jest achin' to make an arrest in this
case. He wants to throw the hull Injun reservation in jail, but he'd
jest as soon switch to a white person, if confronted with the proper
evidence. Now this here letter"--and here Bill took the missive from his
pocket--"looks to me like air-tight, iron-bound, copper-riveted sort of
testimony that says its own say. Tom couldn't help but act on it, and
act quick."

Helen looked about despairingly. The Indians sat like statues on the
porch. They had not even turn