.

A LITTLE TARGET-PRACTICE.
A 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.