"He's a
sure-enough go-getter, Clay is, every jump of the road. I'd follow his
dust any day of the week. You don't never need to think he's any
shorthorn cattleman, for he ain't. He's the livest proposition that
ever come out of Graham County. You can ce'tainly gamble on that."
The postmaster touched a button. A clerk appeared, received orders,
and disappeared.
Johnnie, now on the subject of his hero, continued to harp on his
points. "You're damn whistlin' Clay ain't like me. He's the best
hawss-buster in Arizona. The bronco never was built that can pile him,
nor the man that can lick him. Clay's no bad _hombre_, you understand,
but there can't nobody run it over him. That's whatever. All I'm
afraid of is some one's gave him a raw deal. He's the best blamed old
son-of-a-gun I ever did meet up with."
The clerk presently returned with three letters addressed to Clay
Lindsay, General Delivery, New York. The postmaster handed them to the
little cowpuncher.
"Evidently he never called for them," he said.
Johnnie's chin fell. He looked a picture of helpless woe. "They're
the letters I set down an' wrote him my own se'f. Something has sure
happened to that boy, looks like," he bemoaned.
"We'll try Police Headquarters. Maybe we can get a line on your
friend," the postmaster said, reaching for the telephone. "But you
must remember New York is a big place. It's not like your Arizona
ranch. The city has nearly eight million inhabitants.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90