nt out Slim as the limit, once in
a while?"

"Come on down to the stable, and let's talk it over," Andy suggested,
and led the way. "What's his style, anyway? Mouthy, or what?"

With four willing tongues to enlighten him, it would be strange, indeed,
if one so acute as Andy Green failed at last to have a very fair mental
picture of Miguel. He gazed thoughtfully at his boots, laughed suddenly,
and slapped Irish quite painfully upon the back.

"Come on up and introduce me, boys," he said. "We'll make this Native
Son so hungry for home--you watch me put it on the gentleman. Only it
does seem a shame to do it."

"No, it ain't. If you'd been around him for two weeks, you'd want to
kill him just to make him take notice," Irish assured him.

"What gets me," Andy mused, "is why you fellows come crying to me for
help. I should think the bunch of you ought to be able to handle one
lone Native Son."

"Aw, you're the biggest liar and faker in the bunch, is why," Happy Jack
blurted.

"Oh, I see." Andy hummed a little tune and pushed his hands deep into
his pockets, and at the corners of his lips there flickered a smile.

The Native Son sat with his hat tilted slightly back upon his head and a
cigarette between his lips, and was reaching lazily for the trick which
made the fourth game his, when the group invaded the bunk-house. He
looked up indifferently, swept Andy's face and figure with a glance
too impersonal to hold even a shade of curiosity, and began rapidly
shuffling his cards to count the points he had made.

Andy stopped short, just inside the door, and stared hard at Miguel,
who gave no sign. He turned his honest, gray eyes upon Pink and Irish
accusingly--whereat they wondered greatly.

"Your deal--if you want to play," drawled Miguel, and shoved his cards
toward Big Medicine. But the boys were already uptilting chairs to
grasp the quicker the outstretched hand of the prodigal, so that Miguel
gathered up the cards, evened their edges mechanically, and deigned
another glance at this stranger who was being welcomed so vociferously.
Also he sighed a bit--for even a languid-eyed stoic of a Native Son may
feel the twinge of loneliness. Andy shook hands all round, swore amiably
at Weary, and advanced finally upon Miguel.

"You don't know me from Adam's off ox," he began genially, "but I know
you, all right, all right. I hollered my head off with the rest of 'em
when you played merry hell in that bull-ring, last Chris