nough to handle any Roush that ever lived. I wasn't askin' for help
from you-uns that I heerd tell of."

The younger man laughed. He was six or seven years older than the girl,
who could not have been more than seventeen. Both of them bore a marked
likeness to the middle-aged man who had spoken. Jim guessed that this was
the Roubideau family of whom Billie Prince had told him.

"Just out of the cradle, by Christmas, and he's killed four 'Paches
inside of an hour an' treed a renegade to boot," said young Roubideau.
"I'd call it a day's work, kid, for it sure beats all records ever I knew
hung up by one man."

The admiration of the young rancher was patent. He could not take his
eyes from the youthful phenomenon.

"He's wounded, father," the girl said in a low voice.

The boy looked at her and his anger died away. "Billie sent me up the
gulch when he was shot. He 'lowed it was up to me to git you back from
those devils, seein' as he couldn't go himself."

Polly nodded. She seemed to be the kind of girl that understands without
being told in detail.

Before Thursday could protect himself, Roubideau, senior, had seized him
in his arms, embraced him, and kissed first one cheek and then the other.
"Eh bien! But you are the brave boy! I count it honor to know you. My
little Polly, have you not save her? Ah! But I forget the introductions.
Myself, I am Pierre Roubideau, a tout propos at your service. My son
Jean. Pauline--what you call our babie."

"My real name is Jim Clanton," answered the boy. "I've been passin' by
that of 'Thursday' so that none of the Roush outfit would know I was in
the country till I met up face to face with 'em."

"Clanton! It is a name we shall remember in our prayers, n'est-ce pas,
Polly?" Pierre choked up and wrung fervently the hand of the youngster.

Clanton was both embarrassed and wary. He did not know at what moment
Roubideau would disgrace him by attempting another embrace. There was
something in the Frenchman's eye that told of an emotion not yet expended
fully.

"Oh, shucks; you make a heap of fuss about nothin'," he grumbled. "Didn't
I tell you it was Billie Prince sent me? An' say, I got a pill in my
foot. Kindness of one of them dad-gummed Mescaleros. I hate to walk on
that laig. I wish yore boy would go up on the bluff an' look after my
horse. I 'most rode it to death, I reckon, comin' up the canon. An'
there's a sawed-off shotgun. He'll find it..."

For a few moments the gr