"They're for Tom Barton, at Dry Wash," he said. "For the last six years, regular, Barton has sent to The Emporium for a pair of them oak-sole, laced-knee contraptions. Funny how a man's got to have the same thing right along when he once gets stuck on it. Barton's got a ranch down here in charge of a foreman named Hoover, but he stays mostly up at Dry Wash himself. Him and his men are good customers of ours, Arlo, and we got to treat him white. Say, Jerry!" and Long turned to his assistant, "Put them tan bluchers in a box, wrap 'em secure, and send 'em by express prepaid to Barton, same's usual."
"Maybe I'd better do that," said McKenzie. "Things are sort of quiet in the store, and I can just as well attend to that as not."
McKenzie was a tall, meager-framed man, middle-aged, and looking at least ten years older than he really was. During the last week, Long had noticed that he seemed absent-minded; that his eyes had grown dull and his face haggard, just as though something was worrying him. This bothered Long a good deal, for his heart was kindly and he did not want to see his partner get under the weather and perhaps take to his bed.
"All right, Mac, maybe you'd better," said Long. "And that reminds me of another thing. Business is quiet, and if you'd like to go away for a couple o' weeks with Lois—fishing or something else—I guess The Emporium won't suffer. You're lookin' kind o' peaked the last few days. Go off somers and have a good time. Why not?"
McKenzie flashed a quick glance at his partner. "I'm all right, Amos," he answered, and he laughed lightly as he took the boots from Jerry. But it was a forced laugh, and Long knew McKenzie was far from being all right. However, he did not press the matter further.
McKenzie went into the storeroom with the boots. Perhaps half an hour later he emerged with a package under his arm, and started for the express office. "Don't forget to send 'em prepaid," Long called after him, "and by express. Barton never uses parcel post much."
"I get you," answered McKenzie.
At the express office, Al Reeves, the driver, had just got back with a load of stuff from the station. He took the package handed over by McKenzie, looked at the address, and turned to the scales.
"Where's Summerfield, Al?" inquired McKenzie.
Summerfield was the express agent, and, for very good reasons which will appear later, an excellent friend of McKenzie's. Reeves was a freckle-faced, red-headed youngster, and he grinned widely as he answered: "He just saw some one go by, Mr. McKenzie, and went out to walk down the street with her a ways."
"Ah!" McKenzie murmured, and a glow came into his dark eyes. The sparkle vanished suddenly, and an expression of sorrow flashed into the thin face.
"This hugs six pounds mighty close," observed Reeves, "and if you want to prepay, it will cost you two bits."
"I want it to go prepaid," said McKenzie. "What's the method when you send a package prepaid, Al?" he inquired, exhibiting a sudden interest in the driver's work.
"Give you a receipt first," was the answer, and the driver proceeded to write one out with an indelible pencil, "Next," he went on, after exchanging the receipt for a quarter, which he dropped into the till, "I put on this yellow prepaid slip."
A pad of the slips lay on the counter, and he picked one off, drew it across a wet sponge, and slapped it on the parcel. "What's the value, Mr. McKenzie?" inquired Reeves.
