The interior smelled of burned wood and smoke and dried blood. Flies buzzed in the stifling heat. “Amateurs,” he said. He picked a letter from the pile, one with a heavy rust-colored smear, and glanced at the address. San Antonio. He let it fall back to the floor. The wind had spilled some of the mail outside the car, onto the side of the tracks. “What are you looking for?” the new express messenger asked. He had come with Jaeger on the train from Liberal. “A letter,” Jaeger said. “Addressed to the governor of New York. It will have a special delivery stamp.” “That would make it United States property,” the messenger said. “It’s a felony to tamper with the mail.” The messenger waited a moment, then couldn’t control his laughter. “Sorry, I can’t hold a poker face,” he said, slapping his thigh. I’ll see what I can find.” “Good,” Jaeger said, annoyed. While the messenger and his assistant started going through the bag, he took his field glasses from the leather case slung around his neck.
