MORE THAN A BET
Noontime was an hour of leisure at the post office, due to the fact
that without exception the east and west mail trains arrived in the
very early morning or late afternoon. This suited Johnny. Strolling
up to the window he found Miss Nannie Price, the assistant
postmistress, in the act of artistically dissecting an orange.
“Mr. Allerdyce!” Nannie gurgled. “You _are_ a stranger, even though
handsomer than usual.”
“Now, you stop, Miss Nannie, ma’am,” Johnny grinned. “A new
neckpiece ain’t deceivin’ you thata-way.”
Nannie laughed. In common with many others, she was fond of Johnny.
“You’re not expecting any mail?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, not exactly. Fact is, Miss Nannie, I want you to do me a
favor. And it ain’t downright reg’lar, either.”
Nannie perked up at once. “Oh, Mr. Allerdyce,” she cooed, “I’m dying
to know what it is.”
“Well, I’ll tell yuh. There was a man over in Standing Rock the
other night, and nobody could find out his name. I just bet I could.
I know he was allowin’ to come back here, and I surmise he gets mail
here. His initials are C. T. I told myself if anybody answered to
that down here, you’d know it.”
“C. T.?” queried Nannie, her memory being put to question. “C.
T.—Charles, Chris, Chester, Cleve—Cleve von Thurlow? No, that would
be C. V., wouldn’t it? Humph! Beats me.” And to show how positive
her statement was she reached for the letters in the T pigeonhole.
Thumbing them with a practiced hand she ran over them speedily.
Johnny’s heart was pounding heavily, for he was having the secrets
of the United States mails opened to him. Putting Nannie on her
mettle had won where a more direct method would have failed most
miserably.
Johnny’s elation began to wane as the girl went on through the
handful of letters without pausing, and then, as he was about to
give up hope, Nannie flapped a letter to the counter.
“That’s him!” she exclaimed. “Crosbie Traynor! Must be, because
here’s another for him. Where was he from—Flagstaff?”
“That’s right,” Johnny assured her. “From down Arizona way. Crosbie
Traynor! Well, ma’am, it’s sure my treat. Next time you go by the
Eagle Drug, you stop in. There’ll be a box of candy there for you.”
“You shouldn’t do that, Mr. Allerdyce,” Nannie protested very
prettily. “You know that I usually do remember names; but we’ve been
so busy.”
Johnny was in no mood to complain of this willing worker. “My laws,
of course!” he hastened to say. “Fools shouldn’t be coming around
botherin’ you.”
And Johnny, further to show his gratitude, purchased a dollar’s
worth of stamps, for which he had absolutely no use. And, of course,
Nannie’s percentage didn’t hold good on the deal, either.
Johnny’s pace, when he had turned back on to Bridge Street, slowed
materially. He was too full for words. To go back to the hotel would
be to share his success with Tony, and he was not yet ready to do
that. As was habitual with him, he wanted to be alone to digest this
latest discovery. He found the proper place for it in the deserted
waiting-room at the Espee station.
His continual repetition of the dead man’s name might have been a
funeral chant, so often did he sound it.
“Crosbie Traynor.” A pause, then: “Crosbie Traynor. I’ve got the
tracks cleared now! I’ll see the Injuns first; but if I’m stopped
there, I’m goin’ on, even if it’s clear to Flagstaff!”