Again he noted the paper; this
time he stooped and caught it up. For now he saw that it was folded,
carefully placed where he must see it, pinned down with a sharp pointed
horseshoe nail.
"Now who's sending me letters this way?" he demanded of himself.
And he flushed a little and called himself a fool because he knew that
he half expected to find that it was a note from a certain girl with
unforgettable grey eyes. But before he had read the few words, as soon
in fact as his eyes had fallen upon the uneven, laboriously constructed
letters of the lead-pencilled scrawl, he knew that this did not come
from her hand. The signature puzzled him; it consisted of two letters,
initials evidently, a very large j, not capitalized, followed by a very
small capital C.
"Now, who's J.C.?" he muttered. "I can call to mind no J.C. who would be
writing me letters!"
As he read the note a look of astonishment came into his eyes. It ran:
"Deer buck, I am shure up against hard luck. Dont know nobody but you
can give me a hand remember that time down in El paso I was yore freind.
Come to old shack by Poison hole tonight & dont tell nobody & bring sum
grub Buck remember El paso.
"j.c.
"p.s. I was yore freind buck."
Thornton remembered.
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