There were any number of reasons why the manservant of a busy ranch owner would have business with a stagecoach line, but I was satisfied that he’d just posted a letter to Denver on Freemason’s behalf to test Brother Bernard’s story. It was Monday and a coach stood ready before the door. That meant a waiting line inside and I joined it. Luther Cherry, looking every bit the scarecrow I’d met during the trip from Wichita Falls, in a morning coat plastered with lint and stray hairs, stood at the head of the line, arguing with the friendly clerk behind the counter. “Four-fifty just to carry a letter to St. Louis? I might as well pay a little more and deliver it in person.” “I’m sorry, sir; that’s the special delivery rate. Undoubtedly it will come down after they string a telegraph line from Wichita Falls. It always does—competition, you understand. But that won’t happen until after the railroad comes through.” “Until which time, Wells, Fargo will behave as arrogantly as any of the Eastern trusts.
What do You think about The Book Of Murdock (2011)?
