was written in pencil on ruled sheets apparently torn from a cheap notebook, quite as if proper pens and decent stationery were not to be had, and ran as follows:
Dear Friend Bill:
Well, Bill, I know God hates a quitter, but I guess I got a streak of yellow in me wider than the Comstock lode. I was kicking at my stirrups even before I seen that bunch of whiskers, and when I took a flash of them and seen he was intending I should go out before folks without any regular pants on, I says I can be pushed just so far. Well, Bill, I beat it like a bat out of hell, as I guess you know by this time, and I would like to seen them catch me as I had a good bronc. If you know whose bronc it was tell him I will make it all O. K. The bronc will be all right when he rests up some. Well, Bill, I am here on the ranche, where everything is nice, and I would never come back unless certain parties agree to do what is right. I would not speak pieces that way for the President of the U. S. if he ask me to on his bended knees. Well, Bill, I wish you would come out here yourself, where everything is nice. You can't tell what that bunch of crazies would be wanting you to do next thing with false whiskers and no right pants. I would tell them "I can be pushed just so far, and now I will go out to the ranche with Sour-dough for some time, where things are nice." Well, Bill, if you will come out Jeff Tuttle will bring you Wenesday when he comes with more grub, and you will find everything nice. I have told Jeff to bring you, so no more at present, with kind regards and hoping to see you here soon.
Your true friend,
E. G. FLoud.
P. S.Mrs. Effie said she would broaden me out. Maybe she did, because I felt pretty flat. Ha! ha!
Truth to tell, this wild suggestion at once appealed to me. I had an impulse to withdraw for a season from the
