on to them.

While they were engaged in this, I was trying to think out some
way of letting Mr. Cullen and Albert know where the letters were.
The problem was to suggest the saddle to them, without letting
the cowboys understand, and by good luck I thought I had the
means. Albert had complained to me the day we had ridden out to
the Indian dwellings at Flagstaff that his saddle fretted some
galled spots which he had chafed on his trip to Moran's Point.
Hoping he would "catch on," I shouted to him,--

"How are your sore spots, Albert?"

He looked at me in a puzzled way, and called, "Aw, I don't
understand you."

"Those sore spots you complained about to me the day before
yesterday," I explained.

He didn't seem any the less befogged as he replied, "I had
forgotten all about them."

"I've got a touch of the same trouble," I went on; "and, if I
were you, I'd look into the cause."

Albert only looked very much mystified, and I didn't dare say
more, for at this point the trio, with the sheriff, came out of
my car. If I hadn't known that the letters were safe, I could
have read the story in their faces, for more disgusted and
angry-looking men I have rarely seen.

They had a talk with the sheriff, and then Fred, Lord Ralles, and
I were marched off by the official, his lordship loudly demanding
sight of a warrant, and protesting against the illegality of his
arrest, varied at moments by threats to appeal to the British
consul, minister plenipo., Her Majesty's Foreign Office, etc.,
all of which had about as much influence on the sheriff and his
cowboy assistants as a Moqui Indian snake-dance would have in
stopping a runaway engine. I confess to feeling a certain grim
satisfaction in the fact that if I was to be shut off from seeing
Madge, the Britisher was in the same box with me.

Ash Forks, though only six years old, had advanced far enough
towards civilization to have a small jail, and into that we were
shoved. Night was come by the time we were lodged there, and,
being in pretty good appetite, I struck the sheriff for some
grub.

"I'll git yer somethin'," he said, good-naturedly; "but next time
yer shove people, Mr. Gordon, just quit shovin' yer friends. My
shoulder feels like--" perhaps it's just as well not to say what
his shoulder felt like. The Western vocabulary is expressive, but
at times not quite fit for publication.

The moment the sheriff was gone, Fred wanted the mystery of the
letters explained