LITMIR.BIZ

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      But his opponent had had enough, and more than enough. It was one thing to browbeat a harmless boy, quite another to measure courage with a young gamecock like this. He had all the advantage of the first move. He was an expert and could drive his first throw into the youth's heart. But at bottom he was a coward and lacked the nerve, if not the inclination, to kill. If he took up that devil-may-care challenge he must fight it out alone. Moreover, as his furtive glance went round the ring of faces, he doubted whether a rope and the nearest telegraph pole might not be his fate if he went the limit. Sourly he accepted defeat, raging in his craven spirit at the necessity.

      “Hell! I don't fight with boys,” he snarled,

      “So?”

      Bucky moved forward with the curious lightness of a man spring-footed. His gaze held the other's shifting eyes as he plucked the knife from his opponent's hand.

      “Unbuckle that belt,” he ordered.

      All said, the eye is a prince of weapons. It is a moral force more potent than the physical, and by it men may measure strength to a certainty. So now these two clinched and battled with it till the best man won. The showman's look gave way before the stark courage of the other. His was no match for the inscrutable, unwavering eye that commanded him. His fingers began to twitch, edged slowly toward his waist. For an instant they fumbled at the buckle of the belt, which presently fell with a rattle to the floor.

      “Now, roll yore trail to the wall. Face this way! Arms out! That's good! You rest there comfortable while I take these pins down and let the kid out.”

      He removed the knives that hemmed in the boy and supported the half-fainting figure to a chair beside the roulette table. But always he remained in such a position as to keep the big bully he was baiting in view. The boy dropped into the chair and covered his face with his hands, sobbing with deep, broken breaths. The ranger touched caressingly the crisp, fair hair that covered the head in short curls.

      “Don't you worry, bub. Now, don't you. It's all over with now. That coyote won't pester you any more. Will you, Mr. False Alarm Bad Man?”

      At the last words he wheeled suddenly to the showman. “You're right sorry already you got so gay, ain't you? Come! Speak yore little piece, please.”

      He waited for an answer, and his gaze held fast to the bloated face that cringed before his attack.

      “What's your name?”

      “Jay Hardman,” quavered the now thoroughly sobered bad man.

      “Dead easy jay, I reckon you mean. Now, chirp, up and tell the boy how sorry you are you got fresh with your hardware.”

      “He's my boy. I guess I can do what I like with him,” the man burst out angrily. “I wasn't hurting him any, either. That's part of our show, to—”

      Bucky fondled suggestively the revolver in his hand. A metallic click came to his victim.

      “Don't you shoot at me again,” the man broke off to scream.

      The Colt clipped the sentence and the man's other ear.

      “You can put in your order now for them earrings we were mentionin', Mr. Deadeasy. You see, I had to puncture this one so folks would know they were mates.”

      “I'll put you in the pen for this,” the fellow whined, in terror.

      “Funny how you will get off the subject. We were discussin' an apology when you got to wandering in yore haid.”

      The mottled face showed white in patches. Beads of perspiration stood out on the forehead of Hardman. “I didn't aim to hurt him any. I'll be right glad to explain to you—”

      A bullet plowed a path through the long hair that fell to the showman's shoulders and snipped a lock from it.

      “You don't need to explain a thing to me, seh. I'm sure resting easy in my mind. But as you were about to re-mark you're fair honin' for a chance to ask the kid's pardon. Now, ain't I a mind reader, seh?”

      A trembling voice stammered huskily an apology.

      “Better late than too late. Now, I've a good mind to take a vote whether I'd better unload the rest of the pills in this old reliable medicine box at you. Mebbe I ought to pump one into that coyote heart of yours.”

      The fellow went livid. “My God, you wouldn't kill an unarmed man, would you?”

      For answer the ranger tossed the weapon on the table with a scornful laugh and strode up to the other. The would-be bad man towered six inches above him, and weighed half as much again. But O'Connor whirled him round, propelled him forward to the door, and kicked him into the street.

      “I'd hate to waste a funeral on him,” he said, as he sauntered back to the boy at the table.

      The lad was beginning to recover, though his breath still came with a catch. His rag of a handkerchief was dabbing tears out of his eyes. O'Connor noticed how soft his hands and how delicate his features.

      “This kid ain't got any more business than a rabbit going around in the show line with that big scoundrel. He's one of these gentle, rock-me-to-sleep-mother kids that ought to stay in the home nest and not go buttin' into this hard world. I'll bet a doughnut he's an orphan, though.”

      Bucky had been brought up in the school of experience, where every student keeps his own head or goes to the wall. All his short life he had played a lone hand, as he would have phrased it. He had campaigned in Cuba as a mere boy. He had ridden the range and held his own on the hurricane deck of a bucking broncho. From cowpunching he had graduated into the tough little body of territorial rangers at the head of which was “Hurry Up” Millikan. This had brought him a large and turbulent experience in the knack of taking care of himself under all circumstances. Naturally, a man of this type, born and bred to the code of the outdoors West, could not fail of a certain contempt for a boy that broke down and cried when the game was going against him.

      But Bucky's contempt was tolerant, after all. He could not deny his sympathy to a youngster in trouble. Again he touched gently the lad's crisp curls of burnished gold.

      “Brace up, bub. The worst is yet to come,” he laughed awkwardly. “I reckon there's no use spillin' any more emotion over it. He ain't your dad, is he?”

      The lad's big brown eyes looked up into the serene blue ones and found comfort in their strength. “No, he's my uncle—and my master.”

      “This is a free country, son. We don't have masters if we're good Americans, though we all have to take orders from our superior officers. You don't need to serve this fellow unless you want to. That's a cinch.”

      The boy's troubled eyes were filmed with reminiscent terror. “You don't know him. He is terrible when he is angry,” he murmured.

      “I don't think it,” returned Bucky contemptuously. “He's the worst blowhard ever. Say the word and I'll run the piker out of town for you.”

      The boy whipped up the sleeve of the fancy Mexican jacket he wore and showed a long scar on his arm. “He did that one day when he was angry at me. He pretended to others that it was an accident, but I knew better. This morning I begged him to let me leave him. He beat me, but he was still mad; and when he took to drinking I was afraid he would work himself up to stick me again with one of his knives.”

      Bucky looked at the scar in the soft, rounded arm and swept the boy with a sudden puzzled glance that was not suspicion but wonder.

      “How long have you been with him, kid?”

      “Oh, for years. Ever since I was a little fellow. He took me after my father and mother died of yellow fever in New Orleans. His wife hates me too, but they have to have me in the show.”

      “Then I guess you had better quit their company. What's your name?”

      “Frank Hardman. On the show bills I have all sorts of names.”

      “Well, Frank, how would you like to go to live

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