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 Texas paused for their parting on the southern edge of Cottonwood. Uncle Boley had insisted on going with him that far, clinging pathetically to his slipping hold on this friend of his age.

"It'll be dark before you've went very fur, Texas," he said, putting off the last word in the useless way that one will do when parting is inevitable, and the bitterness of tears is rising to the tongue.

"It won't matter, Uncle Boley; I can foller my way."

Texas stood looking off into the south, his head held high, his blanket in a military roll over his shoulder.

"There's not much down there for me but recollections now, but a man loves the place that's been kind to him, and his feet ache to start back to it when his troubles come too fast."

"Maybe you won't like it when you git back there, Texas?" Uncle Boley spoke hopefully, looking up at his young friend's yearning face.

"No man can tell, sir."

"If you don't, you can come back; you can always come back, Texas."

"Sir, thank you kindly. And I'll be rackin' on."

Texas unbuckled the revolver that Uncle Boley had given him and handed it back to the old man.