of his cruel, evil eyes came over me, an' my lips
curled back over my teeth. "If you had known I was your foreman an' had
mixed with me I'd 'a' killed you a few moments ago. The very next time
you cross me I'll kill you. I sleep light--when I do sleep. Are you
goin' to cook my supper?"

"Yes, you blasted rattler," sez he, with a grin, "you're the killin'
kind an' you're the killin' age, but I know when the jig's up. I know
your name all right, but hanged if I can see through your game. I ain't
goin' to try, either. As long as you choose to play at bein' foreman,
I'll play at bein' cook, an' when you start on again, I'm willin' to
join ya. I'll get your supper in a jiffey, Kid."

I sauntered over to the fair-hair, tryin' to act as if this was an
every day occurrence. He had never changed his position all through it,
although his hands were tremblin'.

I sat down beside him an' he chuckled softly--I liked that chuckle. It
was boyish an' friendly, but most of all it showed a good foundation.
He was new to the game, but he was the kind that learned.

"I suppose I'm purt nigh as old as you," he blurted out.

"In some things, mebbe--not in the cattle business," sez I.

"No," he grinned, "nor in the man-handlin' business, but I want to tell
you right now that I have enjoyed this evenin's performance, no matter
what happens from it. I ain't carryin' much cash with me," he added
after a moment's thought.

"I ain't carryin' any," sez I.

He looked into my face again an' gave his chuckle. A feller couldn't
help but echo when that fair-hair chuckled. "I heard the cook say he
knew you an' he called you Kid--I suppose you are the Pan Handle Kid?"
he asked.

"I didn't know the' was a Pan Handle Kid, but they're pretty common an'
they're all a good bit alike. Forced to begin killin' before they're
able to put the right value on life, an' once they begin, no way to
stop. Now I'll tell you confidential that I'm not the Pan Handle, nor
any other kind of a kid, although I once was the makin' of one. Still,
it will make matters easier if this bunch thinks I am, so we'll just
let it go at that. My name is Happy Hawkins; what might I call you?"

"Happy?"--he opens his eyes like saucers an' then he laughs like a boy.
"Well, I watched you goin' after the cook with the neck yoke an' I
never in the world would have called you Happy."

"Well, you'll see me trail in this bunch o' beef cattle, smooth an'
contented an' with every man ja