“There’s th’ cook yellin’ ‘supper’ now. Let’s eat.”

Ren slid off the fence and looked at Sig.

“Are yuh goin’ to help me out?” he asked pleadingly.

“I’ve decided to give it uh whirl,” stated Ren. “To make th’ play good I’ll go to Curlew on Sunday mornin’ and circle th’ stage from there in the mornin’, after givin’ it out that I’m on my way to Mica. Sabe th’ play, Sig? I’ll also hint that when I comes down th’ trail I sees uh person who looks like Pete Melcher to me. Pete is holed up somewhere in th’ west part of th’ state, but he’s liable to start operatin’ over here any old time.”

“Good stuff!” yells Sig “It’s shore white of you, Ren. Dog-gone, there ain’t no chance of uh slip-up and me, I’ll be th’ li’l hero and save th’ girl, eh?”

“Don’t worry about th’ slips in th’ game,” states Ren. “If Art Miller does rim me with his ol’ riot gun, or if I gits uh free ride to Deer Lodge, I won’t have to marry—huh! Every cloud has uh silver linin’, Sigismund Alexander.”

Th’ next mornin’, bein’ Sunday, Ren throws his saddle on his brown mare and points off across th’ hills towards Curlew, and on Monday mornin’ Sig puts his ridin’ gear on Old Man Padden’s best lookin’ bronc, polishes up his boots and slips off across th’ hills towards Hell Gate Cañon.

Sig breezes across th’ hills with joy in his heart, so much joy that he thumbs that bronc, with th’ result that he almost gits set on foot. He has time to burn, so he decides to go out of his way to say “hello” to Pete Gonyer. Pete lives in uh li’l cabin up in Roarin’ Gulch, and Sig ain’t been up that way fer some time. It will give him an excuse fer bein’ seen in th’ Hell Gate hills.

He finds that Pete ain’t home, so he ambles down th’ gulch, ties up his bronc and takes uh nap under uh bush. He sleeps about an hour and then moves on. He ain’t got no watch, but th’ sun looks about one o’clock, so he drops off th’ hills to th’ road and turns back towards Piperock.

He jogs along slow ’till he gits to th’ spring near th’ Rock of Ages, and he swings off to git uh drink. Right there he spies uh letter layin’ near th’ spring under uh bush, and nacherally he picks it up and looks it over.

“Huh!” says he. “Addressed to Jack Elberton, Helena. I reckon Art must ’a’ lost it goin’ out.”

And then like 

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