Chapter 17 A
Little Target-PracticeA grimy buck with no hat of any sort and with his hair
straggling unbraided over one side of his face to conceal a tumor
which grew just over his left eye like a large, ripe plum, stood
outside the gate, in doubt whether to enter or remain where he was.
When he saw Good Indian he grunted, fumbled in his blanket, and
held out a yellowish envelope.
"Ketchum Squaw-talk-far-off," he explained gutturally.
Good Indian took the envelope, thinking it must be a telegram,
though he could not imagine who would be sending him one. His name
was written plainly upon the outside, and within was a short note
scrawled upon a telegraph form:
"Come up as soon as you possibly can. I've something to tell
you."
That was what she had written. He read it twice befo
