Being the one man on the Flying Heart who had occasion to wear a gun, Willie seldom smiled from a sense of humor. Here it may be said that, deceived at first by his scholarly appearance, his fellow-laborers had jibed at Willie's affectation of a swinging holster, but the custom had languished abruptly. When it became known who he was, the other ranch-hands had volubly declared that this was a free country, where a man might exercise a wide discretion in the choice of personal adornment; and as for them, they avowed unanimously that the practice of packing a Colts was one which met with their most cordial approbation. In time Willie's six-shooter had become accepted as a part of the local scenery, and, like the scenery, no one thought of remarking upon it, least of all those who best knew his lack of humor. He had come to them out of the Nowhere, some four years previously, and while he never spoke of himself, and discouraged reminiscence in others, it became known through those vague uncharted channels by which news travels on the frontier, that back in the Texas Panhandle there was a limping marshal who felt regrets at mention of his name, and that farther north were other men who had a superstitious dread of undersized cow-men with spectacles. There were also stories of lonesome "run-ins," which, owing to Willie's secretiveness and the permanent silence of the other participants, never became more than intangible rumors. But he was a good ranchman, attended to his business, and the sheriff's office was remote, so Willie had worked on unmolested. "This here is a real foot-runner," said Stover. "Exactly," agreed the other. "Where is he?" "He'll be here this afternoon. Nigger Mike's bringin' him over from the railroad. He's a guest." "Oh!" "Yep! He's intercollegit champeen of Yale." "Yale?" repeated the near-sighted man. "Don't know's I ever been there. Much of a town?" "I ain't never travelled East myself, but Miss Jean and the little yaller-haired girl say he's the fastest man in the world. I figgered we might rib up something with the Centipede." Still Bill winked sagely. "See here, do you reckon he'd run?" "Sure! He's a friend of the boss. And he'll run on the level, too. He can't be nothin' like Humpy." "If he is, I'll git him," said the cowboy. "Oh, I'll git him sure, guest or no guest. But how about the phonograph?" "The Centipede will put it up quick enough; there ain't no sentiment in that outfit." "Then it sounds good." "An' it'll work. Gallagher's anxious to trim us again. Some folks can't stand prosperity." Willie spat unerringly at a grasshopper. "Lord!" said he, "it's too good! It don't sound possible." "Well, it is, and our man will be here this evenin'. Watch out for Nigger Mike, and when he drives up let's give this party a welcome that'll warm his heart on the jump. There's nothin' like a good impression."