“You see, Pierre, old scout, I don’t forget you”—he pointed to the bottle on the table. “Kentucky bourbon, the best I’ve got in the house, and the very label you used to call for. Now we’ve got to drink to your speedy recovery. Fill up all round, boys. The drinks are on me tonight.” “Hip, hip, hooray!” shouted Tom, as the glasses tinkled. “Hush!” exclaimed Buck, warningly. “We don’t want to bring any booze fighters prowlin’ around here tonight. You see, Pierre, we four are in cahoots and understand each other. You know Tom and myself—we ain’t in need of any guarantee. And you can trust Mr. Chester Munson and Jack Rover here to the limit.” Luzon bowed acknowledgment of the informal introduction. “It was we who put up the cash to get you out of San Quentin,” continued Buck, as he dropped into a chair close beside Tom Baker. “Together with Dick Willoughby,” interjected Munson. “Oh, yes, not forgettin’ Dick,” resumed the storekeeper, “as fine a young feller as ever walked on shoe leather. But, by God, he’s in jail just now.” “Eh?” ejaculated the ex-convict, with a look of awakening, almost fraternal, interest. Buck turned to the sheriff. “Of course, Tom, you’ll have read all about that terrible affair in the newspapers?” The sheriff surreptitiously grabbed Buck’s arm. He spoke in a confidential whisper. “Drop that subject for the present. I’ve said nothin’ about it to old Pierre in case it might upset him. I ain’t dared to mention the name Thurston to him, for he shared the White Wolf’s hatred of the breed.” Then Tom gave a little cough and glanced across the fireplace at the Frenchman. “Just a little cowboy shootin’ scrap, Pierre, in which our chum Dick Willoughby has got himself temporarily involved. But say, boys,” he went on, casting his eyes toward Munson and Rover, “I just thanked the Lord it wasn’t me as had to arrest Dick. Of course if I had still been sheriff I’d a done it—when I was a sworn-in officer, duty was duty all the time with me, as every damned horse-thief within a hundred miles knows. But to take an honest man into custody for shootin’ a miserable human coyote like that young—” “Well, we’re not a-goin’ to speak about him just now,” interrupted Buck, bestowing a cautioning kick on the sheriff’s shins. Tom took the timely reminder. “That would have gone sore against the grain,” he said emphatically, as he reached for the whisky bottle and replenished his tumbler. “Glad to be back?” asked Buck, beaming pleasantly on old Pierre. The Frenchman lifted one thin hand and smiled. “Here I will become once more strong,” he murmured. “No place in ze world like ze dear old Tehachapi mountains.” “Wal, I see you’ve begun to let your beard grow again,” continued Buck, pointing to the gray stubbled chin. “And when your hair comes along, too, you’ll just be lookin’ fine and dandy. The same old Pierre that used to sit for hours at a time in the store.” He paused a moment, surveying the visitor.