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 tered—his waxed end hanging down his beard, his attention off the boot in the strap.

Texas thought that he avoided him with his eyes, and felt the hurt of that distrust more than he had suffered from Sawyer's fists. He believed the old man was going to repudiate him, afraid of the cattlemen's censure for having been his sponsor in a way. He could not blame Uncle Boley for that. Above all the others he had a reason—the reason of his butter and bread, his bed, his humble roof. If they should take their patronage away from him, all would fail.

"But let 'em cuss and be damned—I'll stand by you!" said Uncle Boley, with great and sudden vehemence. He whacked the bench with his hammer, a flush of defiance in his face, the light of a fight in his eyes.

Texas was taken around so suddenly by this declaration that he had no wind for a moment. And then when his wind came back, he hadn't any words, he was so chocked up with the big feeling of gratitude and admiration which rose up in him for this brave, honest old man. He went around the end of the little counter and gave Uncle Boley his hand, and looked him in the eye what men do not say to each other in times like that.

"That's all right, gol dern 'em!" said Uncle Boley. "I knew some of them fellers when they