so graceful, but longer. His shoulders shows a heap of neglect, and from there he just sort of slopes off to his feet, which is some slope, if you asks me.

Riding with his elbows has made his sleeves pull up almost to his shoulders, and hanging on with his knees has pulled up the legs of his pants until he’s setting on most of ’em. He ain’t anything for a drinking man to look at—if he likes the taste of liquor.

Me and Magpie stands there sort of weak-like and watches him search his pockets. He ain’t said a word yet. The more pockets he searches the less he seems to find. He grunts and reaches for his hip pocket, the same of which seems to bend his legs backwards until his heels catch in that bronc’s flanks.

Zowie!

That rat-tailed bronc resents such familiarity, with the result that said apparition lands setting down in our front yard while the insulted bronc wends its way home.

I plumb forgot to mention that this person carried a little valise on the saddle-horn. Yes, it came off with him.

He sets there on the chip-pile blinking like a old owl, and then he produces an envelope from his hip pocket. Then he adjusts his specs and peers up at us.

“I beg your pardon,” says he.

“You have it,” says Magpie.

“You won’t catch that bronc this side of Piperock,” says I. “He’s still throwing sand.”

“Ah! Oh, the—er—equine? Ah! Unavoidable, I assure you.”

“Setting as you were,” admits Magpie. “Good scheme to always watch a bronc’s ears, old-timer.”

“Pleasant pastime, I have no doubt,” he agrees. “Oh, quite interesting. May I ask if either of you gentlemen is Mr. Simpson?”

“Little high and to the right,” says Magpie. “I’m Simpkins.”

“Ah, yes! Delighted, I assure you. My mistake.”

He peers at the letter.

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