Dawson's. He was about to pass by when the storekeeper
signalled to him and called out:
"Mail fer you, Mr. Westerfelt; want me to fetch it out?"
Westerfelt nodded, and reined in and waited till the storekeeper came
out with a packet. "It must 'a' been drapped in after I closed last
night," he said. "Thar wasn't a thing in the box 'fore I went home,
an' it was the only one thar when I unlocked this mornin'. Mighty bad
news down the creek, ain't it?" he ended. "Powerful hard on the old
woman. They say she's mighty nigh distracted."
Making some unintelligible reply, Westerfelt rode on, the packet held
tightly in his hand. It was addressed in Sally Dawson's round, girlish
handwriting, and he knew it contained his letters, and perhaps--he
shuddered at the thought of what else it might contain.
He whipped his horse into a gallop. He wanted to reach a spot where he
could open the package unobserved. He met several wagons and a buggy.
They contained people who bowed and spoke to him, but he scarcely saw
them. At the first path leading from the road into the wood he turned
aside, and then opened his package.
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