Jim Buckley was also tall and large, but he gave one less the idea of nervous force than of a certain static power. He was a mass which moved slowly but irresistibly. His seal-brown beard, his broad forehead, the distance between his wide, steady eyes strengthened this impression. One felt that his decisions would be hardly come at, but stubbornly held. Success was inevitable, but it would be the result of slow thinking, deep purpose, and a quiet tenacity of grip that never let go. As for Alfred--everybody has heard of him. His place in the annals of the West is assured, and his peculiarities of person and character have been many times described. Surely no one is unfamiliar with his short, bandy legs, his narrow, sloping little shoulders, his contracted chest, his queer pink and white face, with its bashful smile, his high bald head. Everybody knows his fear of women. Everybody knows, too, that he never had an opinion of his own on any subject. His speciality was making the best of other people's, no matter how bad they were; and competent judges say he could accomplish a more gloriously perfect best out of some tenderfoot's fool notion than another man with the advice of experts. Some people even maintain that Alfred was the best scout the plains ever produced, only he was so bashful that it took an expert to appreciate the fact. When Lafond approached the camp of these men and threw himself from his pony, he found only Jim Buckley, sitting in the shade of one of his wagons, smoking his pipe. "One says that you will tak' train through thees summer," began the half-breed abruptly. "Ah lak' to go also." Buckley looked his interlocutor over keenly. "Yes," said he slowly, between puffs. "That's right. We aims to pull through, but we don't aim to take no lumber with us. You married?" Lafond shook his head. "No! No! No!" he cried vehemently. "That's all right. Got any cattle?" "Four horses." "That one of them?" "Yes." The scout arose, still with the same appearance of deliberation, and inspected the pony thoroughly, with the eye and movements of an expert. "Others as good?" he inquired. "Bettaire," assured Lafond. "Wagon?" pursued the laconic Buckley. "Bobtail," responded Lafond with equal brevity. Though young, he already possessed some shrewdness in the reading of character. Buckley sat down in the shade and relit his pipe. "Where are you from?" he asked bluntly. "Ontario." "Woods?" "Yes." "Thought you wasn't no tenderfoot. Ever hit the trail?" "Not on those plains. In the woods many times." "We ain't takin' but damn few," went on Buckley dissertatively, "and them that goes has to be right on to their job. No women; good cattle. That's our motto. Reckon you-all fills the bill. Cyan't tell. Got to ask the others."