him.

What Dick's welcome was I did not hear, but judging from the grip he put
on my shoulders and then on my hands, he was glad to see me.

"Ken, blessed if I'd have known you," he said, shoving me back at
arm's-length. "Let's have a look at you.... Grown I say, but you're a
husky lad!"

While he was looking at me I returned the scrutiny with interest. Dick
had always been big, but now he seemed wider and heavier. Among these
bronzed Westerners he appeared pale, but that was only on account of his
fair skin.

"Ken, didn't you get my letter--the one telling you not to come West yet
a while?"

"No," I replied, blankly. "The last one I got was in May--about the
middle. I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick,
don't you want me--now?"

Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot
to another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with
a warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.

"Ken, I'm glad to see you," he said, earnestly. "It's like getting
a glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have
changed--there's something doing here--I'll--"

"You needn't explain, Dick," I replied, gravely. "I know. Buell and--" I
waved my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.

Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick
Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.

"Ken!... You're on," he said, recovering his composure. "Well, wait till
you hear--Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner."

A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step.

"Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the
States," said Dick. "Ken, you know Jim."

If ever I knew anything by heart it was what Dick had written me about
this Texan, Jim Williams.

"Ken, I shore am glad to see you," drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze
that I thought must break every bone in it.

Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of
him fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten
face seemed set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a
quivering alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into.
He wore a wide sombrero, a blue flannel shirt with a double row of big
buttons, overalls, top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A
heavy revolver swung at his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim
Williams had fought Indians and killed bad men, I should still have s