“Ken!... You're on,” he said, recovering his composure. “Well, wait till you hear--Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner.” A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step. “Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the States,” said Dick. “Ken, you know Jim.” If ever I knew anything by heart it was what Dick had written me about this Texan, Jim Williams. “Ken, I shore am glad to see you,” drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze that I thought must break every bone in it. Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of him fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten face seemed set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a quivering alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into. He wore a wide sombrero, a blue flannel shirt with a double row of big buttons, overalls, top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A heavy revolver swung at his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim Williams had fought Indians and killed bad men, I should still have seen something that awed me in the look of him. I certainly felt proud to be standing with those two rangers, and for the moment Buell and all his crew could not have daunted me. “Hello! what's this?” inquired Dick, throwing back my coat; and, catching sight of my revolver, he ejaculated: “Ken Ward!” “Wal, Ken, if you-all ain't packin' a gun!” said Jim, in his slow, careless drawl. “Dick, he shore is!” It was now my turn to blush. “Yes, I've got a gun,” I replied, “and I ought to have had it the other night.” “How so?” inquired Dick, quickly. It did not take me long to relate the incident of the Mexican. Dick looked like a thunder-cloud, but Jim swayed and shook with laughter. “You knocked him off the roof? Wal, thet shore is dee-lightful. It shore is!” “Yes; and, Dick,” I went on, breathlessly, “the Greaser followed me, and if I hadn't missed the trail, I don't know what would have happened. Anyway, he got here first.” “The Greaser trailed you?” interrupted Dick, sharply. When I replied he glanced keenly at me. “How do you know?” “I suspected it when I saw him with two men in the forest. But now I know it.” “How?” “I heard Buell tell Stockton he had put the Greaser on my trail.” “Buell--Stockton!” exclaimed Dick. “What'd they have to do with the Greaser?” “I met Buell on the train. I told him I had come West to study forestry. Buell's afraid I'll find out about this lumber steal, and he wants to shut my mouth.” Dick looked from me to Jim, and Jim slowly straitened his tall form. For a moment neither spoke. Dick's white face caused me to look away from him. Jim put a hand on my arm. “Ken, you shore was lucky; you shore was.” “I guess he doesn't know how lucky,” added Dick, somewhat huskily. “Come on, we'll look up the Mexican.” “It shore is funny how bad I want to see thet Greaser.”