black veil, that somehow she just _seemed_ young and that he'd
bet she was too darn pretty to be wasting herself on Rios, when Jim
Kendric himself landed in their midst.

He was powdered with alkali dust from the soles of his boots to the
crown of his black hat and he looked unusually tall because he was
unusually gaunt. He had ridden far and hard. But the eyes were the
same old eyes of the same old headlong Jim Kendric, on fire on the
instant, dancing with the joy of striking hands with the old-timers,
shining with the man's supreme joy of life.

"I'm no drinking man and you know it," he shouted at them, his voice
booming out and down the quiet blistering street. "And I'm no gambling
man. I'm steady and sober and I'm a regular fool for conservative
investments! But there's a time when a glass in the hand is as pat as
eggs in a hen's nest and a man wants to spend his money free! Come on,
you bunch of devil-hounds; lead me to it."

It was the rollicking arrival which they had counted on since this was
the only way Jim Kendric knew of getting back among old friends and old
surroundings. There was nothing subtle about him; in all things he was
open and forthright and tempestuous. In a man's hardened and buffeted
body he had kept the heart of a harum-scarum boy.

"It's only a step across the line into Old Town," he reminded them.
"And the Mexico gents over there haven't got started reforming yet.
Blaze the trail, Benny. Shut up your damned old store and postoffice,
Homer, and trot along. It's close to sunset any way; I'll finance the
pilgrimage until sunup."

When he mentioned the "postoffice" Homer Day was recalled to his
official duties as postmaster. He gave Kendric the letter from Bruce
West. Kendric ripped open the envelope, glanced at the contents,
skimming the lines impatiently. Then he jammed the letter into his
pocket.

"Just as I supposed," he announced. "Bruce has a sure thing in the way
of the best cattle range you ever saw; he'll make money hand over fist.
But," and he chuckled his enjoyment, "he's just a trifle too busy
scaring off Mexican bandits and close-herding his stock to get any
sleep of nights. Drop him a postcard, Homer; tell him I can't come.
Let's step over to Old Town."

"Ruiz Rios is in town, Jim," he was informed.

"I know," he retorted lightly. "But I'm not shooting trouble nowadays.
Getting older, you know."

"How'd _you_ know?" asked Homer.

"Bruce said so in his l