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 "Well no, Texas, I don't mean for you to just run. But they's four of them fellers, and ever' one of 'em's—"

"If there were forty of them, sir, you couldn't ask me to run!"

The old man looked at him, a mist coming into his quick blue eyes.

"No, I couldn't even throw a hint, Texas."

Texas tightened the belt, snapped out the gun, changed the cartridges, working so fast that the old man gasped in admiration. He smiled, and held out his hand to Uncle Boley.

"I wish to thank you for your many kindnesses to me, a stranger in your door, sir," he said. His voice was as light and steady, his eyes as eager, as if he was about to mount his horse and ride away on some pleasant adventure.

Uncle Boley pressed the young stranger's hand—a stranger grown suddenly as dear to him as a son returned from his far wanderings—and Texas turned with quick step and passed out into the street.