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 plained. "He told me it was carried once by the best man he ever knew."

"It was father's gun," she said softly. She had taken it down, and stood now looking at the heavy gear with her head bowed over it. Texas saw a tear fall on the chafed leather. He put out his hand as if to comfort or assure her.

"I hope I'll always be worthy of it, Miss McCoy."

"I'm sure you will," she said, in simple sincerity. "Did you have it—was this the gun you—" She faltered over the thing she wanted him to understand.

"I owe my life to it already," he said, with gratitude almost reverential.

"I didn't see Uncle Boley before I left; I didn't know. I'm glad he gave it to you; I'm glad you had it when that gang—" She lifted the holster to her lips, as if moved by a sudden emotion, and kissed the stock of the great black gun. She gave it to him then, her head thrown high, her eyes bright in the dim lamplight for the tears that hung in them unspilled.

The others were out by the gate, filling the night with laughter.

"Let's sit here," Sallie suggested, stopping where the moonlight came sowing down through the cottonwood upon a bench.