Arizona Guns. William MacLeod Raine

the middle-aged man who had spoken. Jim guessed that this was the Roubideau family of whom Billie Prince had told him.

      “Just out of the cradle, by Christmas, and he’s killed four ’Paches inside of an hour an’ treed a renegade to boot,” said young Roubideau. “I’d call it a day’s work, kid, for it sure beats all records ever I knew hung up by one man.”

      The admiration of the young rancher was patent. He could not take his eyes from the youthful phenomenon.

      “He’s wounded, father,” the girl said in a low voice.

      The boy looked at her and his anger died away. “Billie sent me up the gulch when he was shot. He ’lowed it was up to me to git you back from those devils, seein’ as he couldn’t go himself.”

      Polly nodded. She seemed to be the kind of girl that understands without being told in detail.

      Before Thursday could protect himself, Roubideau, senior, had seized him in his arms, embraced him, and kissed first one cheek and then the other. “Eh bien! But you are the brave boy! I count it honor to know you. My little Polly, have you not save her? Ah! But I forget the introductions. Myself, I am Pierre Roubideau, a tout propos at your service. My son Jean. Pauline—what you call our babie.”

      “My real name is Jim Clanton,” answered the boy. “I’ve been passin’ by that of ‘Thursday’ so that none of the Roush outfit would know I was in the country till I met up face to face with ’em.”

      “Clanton! It iss a name we shall remember in our prayers, n’est-ce pas, Polly?” Pierre choked up and wrung fervently the hand of the youngster.

      Clanton was both embarrassed and wary. He did not know at what moment Roubideau would disgrace him by attempting another embrace. There was something in the Frenchman’s eye that told of an emotion not yet expended fully.

      “Oh, shucks; you make a heap of fuss about nothin’,” he grumbled. “Didn’t I tell you it was Billie Prince sent me? An’ say, I got a pill in my foot. Kindness of one of them dad-gummed Mescaleros. I hate to walk on that laig. I wish yore boy would go up on the bluff an’ look after my horse. I ’most rode it to death, I reckon, comin’ up the cañon. An’ there’s a sawed-off shotgun. He’ll find it . . .”

      For a few moments the ground had been going up and down in waves before the eyes of the boy. Now he clutched at a stirrup leather for support, but his fingers could not seem to find it. Before he could steady himself the bed of the dry creek rose up and hit him in the head.