Bucky waved a hand easily into space. “That’s all right, too, son. There’s a heap of directions you can hit from here. Take any one you like. But if I was as beat as you are, I think I’d keep on the Epitaph road.” He laughed his warm, friendly laugh, before the geniality of which discord seemed to melt, and again his arm went round the other’s weary shoulders with a caressing gesture that was infinitely protecting. The boy laughed tremulously. “You’re awfully good to me. I know I’m a cry-baby, sissy boy, but if you’ll be patient with me I’ll try to be gamer.” It certainly was strange the way Bucky’s pulse quickened and his blood tingled when he touched the little fellow and heard that velvet voice’s soft murmur. Yes, it surely was strange, but perhaps the young Irishman’s explanation was not the correct one, after all. The cause he offered to himself for this odd joy and tender excitement was perfectly simple. “I’m surely plumb locoed, or else gone soft in the haid,” he told himself grimly. But the reason for those queer little electric shocks that pulsed through him was probably a more elemental and primeval one than even madness. Arrived at Epitaph, Bucky turned loose his prisoner with a caution and made his preparations to leave immediately for Chihuahua. Collins had returned to Tucson, but was in touch with the situation and ready to set out for any point where he was needed. Bucky, having packed, was confronted with a difficulty. He looked at it, and voiced his perplexity. “Now, what am I going to do with you, Curly Haid? I expect I had better ship you back to the Rocking Chair.” “I don’t want to go back there. He’ll come out again and find me after you leave.” “Where do you want to go, then? If you were a girl I could put you in the convent school here,” he reflected aloud. Again that swift, deep blush irradiated the youth’s cheeks. “Why can’t I go with you?” he asked shyly. The ranger laughed. “Mebbe you think I’m going on a picnic. Why, I’m starting out to knock the chip off Old Man Trouble’s shoulder. Like as not some greaser will collect Mr. Bucky’s scalp down in _mañana_ land. No, sir, this doesn’t threaten to be a Y. P. S. C. E. excursion.” “If it is so dangerous as that, you will need help. I’m awful good at making up, and I can speak Spanish like a native.” “Sho! You don’t want to go running your neck into a noose. It’s a jail-break I’m planning, son. There may be guns a-popping before we get back to God’s country—if we ever do. Add to that, trouble and then some, for there’s a revolution scheduled for old Chihuahua just now, as your uncle happens to know from reliable information.” “Two can always work better than one. Try me, Bucky,” pleaded the boy, the last word slipping out with a trailing upward inflection that was irresistible.