Well, that seemed a straight enough story. The only thing in it you really could pick on--except the number of road-agents, he only having seen one, and the rest being his scared guesswork--was the mule not being hit while he was doing all that firing over the back of her. But all fights has their queer chances in 'em; and that was a chance that might a-happened, same as others. Of course, the one big general thing that didn't seem likely was that such a runt as Hart's nephew should have stood up the way he said he did to as much as one road-agent--let alone to the half-dozen or so that like enough had got at him. But even a thing like Hart's nephew sometimes will put up a fight when it's scared so bad it really don't more'n half know what it's doing--and the boys allowed he might have done his fighting that way. That the size of his scare had been big enough to make him do a'most anything showed up from the way he kept on being scared after it was all over--he coming into Palomitas looking like a wet white rag when, by his own showing, he'd been out of reach of anybody's hurting him for four or five hours anyway, and had had a chance to cool off at Pojuaque while he was loading in old man Bouquet's wine. And so, taking the story by and large, the boys allowed that likely most of it was true; and some of 'em even went so far as to say maybe Hart's nephew wasn't more'n half rotten, after all. It was a good story to hear, anyway; and everybody was sorry the Hen wasn't around to hear it. But when some of the boys tried to rout her out, Tenderfoot Sal stood 'em off savage--telling 'em to go about their business, and the Hen's head was aching bad. So the boys had to take it out in making Hart's nephew keep on telling all he had to tell over and over; and he was glad of the chance to, and did--till he got so many drinks in him he couldn't tell anything; and then his uncle, with Shorty Smith helping, took him off home. * * * * *