"No harm done where none iss meant," replied the stranger, speaking excellent English, although with a German accent. It was obvious, even without the accent, that he was of German birth. The Fatherland was written all over his rotund figure, but he was dressed in the fashion of the Southwest--light suit, light shoes, and a straw hat. It was a time when chance meetings led to long friendships. On the border, a stranger spoke to another stranger if he felt like it. One could ask questions if he chose. Partnerships were formed on the spur of the moment in the vast army that was made up of the children of adventure, formality was a commodity little in demand. The German looked rather inquiringly at the boy. "From farther North, iss it not so?" he asked. "Answer or be silent. Either iss your right." Bill laughed. He liked the man’s quaint manner and friendly tone, and he replied promptly: "I was born in Kentucky, my name is Philip Bedford, and I am alone in New Orleans." "Then," said the German, "you must be here for some expedition. This iss where they start. It iss so. I can see it in your face. Come, my young friend, no harm iss done where none iss meant." Phil had taken no offense. He had merely started a little at the shrewd guess. He replied frankly: "I’m thinking of the West, Texas and maybe New Mexico, or even beyond that--California." "It iss a long journey to take alone," said the German, "two thousand, three thousand miles, and not one mile of safe road. Indians, Mexicans, buffaloes, bears, deserts, mountains, all things to keep you from getting across." "But I mean to go," paid Phil firmly. The German looked at him searchingly. His interest in Phil seemed to increase. "Something calls you," he said. Phil was silent. "No harm iss done where none iss meant," the German. "You have told me who you are, Mr. Philip Bedford, and where you come from. It iss right that I tell you as much about myself. My name iss Hans Arenberg, and I am a Texan." Phil looked at him, his eyes full of unbelief, and the German laughed a little. "It iss so," he said. "You do not think I look like a Texan, but I am one by way of Germany. I--I live at New Braunfels." Arenberg’s voice broke suddenly, and then Phil remembered vaguely--New Braunfels, a settlement of German immigrants in Texas, raided by Comanches, the men killed, and the women carried off! It was one of those terrible incidents of the border, so numerous that the new fast crowded the old out of place. "You come from New Braunfels! You are one of the survivors of the massacre!" he exclaimed. "It iss so," said the German, his eyes growing sober, "and I, too, wish to go far into the West. I, too, seek something, young Mr. Philip Bedford, and my road would lie much where yours leads." The two looked at each other with inquiry that shaded into understanding. Arenberg was the first to speak.