But as time went on—and as he prospered—Jim decided that he could change the baching situation for the better if his sister, whom he had left in Ireland years before, were here to keep house for him. He made the trip back to Ireland, but when he got there he learned that his sister was married and lived in California. He then made a hurried trip to the west coast—and in due time the sister, with her husband and several little Ketchums, became members of the Jim Riley household on the farm here. And through the hand of Fate title to the Riley lands later passed to the Ketchums. As Bates had said, Jim Riley did ride his horse into Shuemaker’s hotel. And as “Uncle” Peter had spluttered, Jim did swipe his pies—baked for a big dance supper. Riley carted them out on the street in a wheelbarrow, and passed them out to anyone who would take them. But he paid. Jim always paid. His reputation for doing that was well established. Like the time when someone went into Rising’s general store and said Jim Riley was out in front smashing up a consignment of crockery that had just been unloaded on the high front porch, giving a war-whoop every time as the crocks he was throwing crashed in the street, Don Rising said, “Let him have his fun. He’ll pay.” Also, Jim Riley did deliberately back his wagon up to the post supporting Shuemaker’s prized birdhouse, hurriedly threw a logchain around the post—and drove off, giving one of his famous war-whoops. “Jim’s on another bender,” the oldtimers said—but I knew he was just plain drunk. Jim Riley dearly loved to torment Peter Shuemaker. And he liked to play hide-and-seek with the town marshal. But most of all, Jim loved his drink. And it was while burdened with a mixture of the two that he met his death — in 1887. While making a hurried getaway from the marshal his team of mules, under lash, turned a street corner too quickly, threw Jim out his spring-wagon—and broke his neck. And that bird-house—it was a three-decker, about a yard square, with entrances on all four sides, perched on top of a 10-foot post out in front of the hotel. Here the martins of that day nested and multiplied in such numbers as to greatly overcrowd their living quarters. In the late summer months the new broods would have to take to the roof. Jim’s log chain, applied at the height of the nesting season, broke up all too many bird-nests to suit “Uncle” Peter—and it just about caused his to lose his religion. “Uncle” Peter took his newly-found religion seriously enough, but when suddenly angered he was a mite forgetful. Lapsing back into pre-conversion times, his overworked byword—by-goddies—was shortened up a bit, and with it went a blast of other sulphurous words telling the world what he meant to do to that scoundrel when and if he could ever lay hands on him.