Camp unfolded the papers, and I chuckled to myself at the look of surprise that overspread his face as he took in the fact that they were nothing but section reports.  And, though I don’t like cuss-words, I have to acknowledge that I enjoyed the two or three that he promptly ejaculated.

When the first surprise of the trio was over, they called on the sheriff, who arrived opportunely, to take us into 97 and search the three of us—­a proceeding that puzzled Fred and his lordship not a little, for they weren’t on to the fact that the letters hadn’t been recovered.  I presume the latter will some day write a book dwelling on the favorite theme of the foreigner, that there is no personal privacy in America, and I don’t know but his experiences justify the view.  The running remarks as the search was made seemed to open Fred’s eyes, for he looked at me with a puzzled air, but I winked and frowned at him, and he put his face in order.

When the papers were not found on any of us, Camp and Baldwin both nearly went demented.  Baldwin suggested that I had never had the papers, but Camp argued that Fred or Lord Ralles must have hidden them in the car, in spite of the fact that the cowboys who had caught them insisted that they couldn’t have had time to hide the papers.  Anyway, they spent an hour in ferreting about in my car, and even searched my two darkies, on the possibility that the true letters had been passed on to them.

While they were engaged in this, I was trying to think out some way of letting Mr. Cullen and Albert know where the letters were.  The problem was to suggest the saddle to them, without letting the cowboys understand, and by good luck I thought I had the means.  Albert had complained to me the day we had ridden out to the Indian dwellings at Flagstaff that his saddle fretted some galled spots which he had chafed on his trip to Moran’s Point.  Hoping he would “catch on,” I shouted to him—­

“How are your sore spots, Albert?”

He looked at me in a puzzled way, and called, “Aw, I don’t understand you.”

“Those sore spots you complained about to me the day before yesterday,” I explained.

He didn’t seem any the less befogged as he replied, “I had forgotten all about them.”

“I’ve got a touch of the same trouble,” I went on; “and, if I were you, I’d look into the cause.”

Albert only looked very much mystified, and I didn’t dare say more, for at this point the trio, with the sheriff, came out of my car.  If I hadn’t known that the letters were safe, I could have read the story in their faces, for more disgusted and angry-looking men I have rarely seen.

They had a talk with the sheriff, and then Fred, Lord Ralles, and I were marched off by the official, his lordship loudly demanding sight of a warrant, and protesting against the illegality of his arrest, varied at moments by threats to appeal to the British consul, minister plenipo., her Majesty’s Foreign Office, etc., all of which had about as much influence on the sheriff and his cowboy assistants as a Moqui Indian snake-dance would have in stopping a runaway engine.  I confess to feeling a certain grim satisfaction in the fact that if I was to be shut off from seeing Madge, the Britisher was in the same box with me.