"The finest in the world," replied Phil. "He raised me, Bill, as they say up there in Kentucky. He is four years older than I am, and we were left orphans, young. He taught me about everything I know, helped me at school, and then, when I got big enough, we made traps together, and in the fall and winter caught rabbits. Then I had a little gun, and he showed me how to shoot squirrels. We went fishing in the Kentucky often, and he taught me to ride, too. He was big and strong. Although only a boy himself, he could throw anybody in all the towns about there, but he was so good-natured about it that the men he threw liked him. Then we began to hear about Texas. Everybody was talking about Texas. Many were going there, too. It seemed to us the most wonderful country on earth. John caught the fever. He was going to make fortunes for both of us. I don’t know how, but he meant to do it. I wasn’t big enough to go with him, but he would send for me later. He went down the river to New Orleans. I had a letter from him there, and another from San Antonio, but nothing ever came after that until this dirty, greasy little piece of paper dropped out of the skies. It was four years between." "Four years between!" repeated Bill Breakstone, "and we don’t know what has happened in all that time. But it seems to me, Phil, that you’re right. If this little piece of paper has come straight out of the dark thousands of miles to you, then it’s going to be a guide to us back to the place where it started, because, Phil, I’m going to help you in this. I’ve got a secret errand of my own, and I’m not going to tell it to you just yet, but it can wait. I’m going to see you through, Phil, and we’re going to find that brother John of yours, if we have to rip open every prison in Mexico." His own eyes were bright now with the light of enthusiasm, and he held out his hand, which Phil seized. The fingers of the two were compressed in a strong clasp. "It’s mighty good of you, Bill," said the boy, "to help me, because this isn’t going to be any easy search." "It won’t be any search at all for awhile," said Bill Breakstone, "because a great war is shoving in between. We are approaching the Rio Grande now, Phil." The summer was now gone, and they were well into autumn. The train had come a great distance, more miles than any of them could tell. Cool winds blew across the Texas uplands, and the nights were often sharp with cold. Then the fires of cottonwood, dry cactus, or buffalo chips were very welcome, and it was pleasant to sit before them and speculate upon what awaited them on the other side of the Rio Grande. They had passed beyond the domain of the Comanches, and they were skirting along the edge of a country that contained scattered houses of adobe or log cabins--Mexicans in the former, and Americans in the latter. These were not combatants, but they were full of news and gossip.