“It’s queer how just the grip of a saddle horn puts life in you,” he remarked, as they started out of the clearing, with backward glances at the still smoking cabin. “That’s a right smart gun you’re carrying, Jimmy. I never got a worse knock in my life.” “It’s only a .38,” said Jimmy modestly, though a flush of pride overspread his freckled features at this tribute to his weapon and his marksmanship. “It’s jest drilled a little hole in you, as far as we could see when we was bandagin’ you up. Purty quick I’m goin’ to git a .45. If I’d have been packin’ the gun I want, it would have torn your whole shoulder off.” “Well, I’m glad you’re still sticking to small horses,” replied the Texan genially. “You and I are going to be on a permanent peace footing before you get that .45. I reckon I’ll take no further chances with you.” Jimmy’s reserve and suspicion had melted away before they had more than caught a last glimpse of the cabin smoke through the trees on the foothills. He chatted with the Texan, who did not indicate, by word or facial expression, how much pain the journey was causing him, even though the horses went no faster than a walk. To Bertram’s disappointment Alma Caldwell rode ahead, apparently with a view of being the first to meet any travelers on the trail. But the little procession continued on its way for two hours or more without meeting any one. “It’s lucky we didn’t go by the main road,” said Jimmy, “or we’d have been stopped every mile or so. I’ll bet every man in the county is in the saddle now. But leave it to Alma to find a way out of a difficulty. She’s a wonder, but”--here Jimmy’s voice sank to a confidential murmur--“I’m goin’ to skip off and help fight these invaders, as soon as we git you took care of at Uncle Billy’s.” “Who is Uncle Billy?” “Oh, he belongs to the Coyle side of the family--the side that I’m from. Only he ain’t a fightin’ man like the rest of the Coyles and all the Caldwells. He jest believes in lettin’ everybody do what they want--and the animals, too. He’s queer, but everybody likes him, and you’ll be safe there because nobody bothers Uncle Billy. There’s his place now.” The Texan, who was wondering how many rods farther he could ride without falling from the saddle, looked ahead, past the slim figure of Alma Caldwell, and saw a tiny cabin nestled in an opening in the pine forest. In the doorway stood a tall, white-bearded man, watching from beneath a shading hand. CHAPTER VI SWINGLEY HAS HIS SAY.