boy sat down and rolled a cigarette, passed his tobacco across to
Lambert, and they smoked. And no matter if his college hat had been only
half as big as it was, or his shirt ring-streaked and spotted, they
would have known the stranger for one of their kind, and accepted him as
such.

CHAPTER II

WHETSTONE, THE OUTLAW

When Taterleg roused the camp before the east was light, Lambert noted
that another man had ridden in. This was a wiry young fellow with a
short nose and fiery face, against which his scant eyebrows and lashes
were as white as chalk.

His presence in the camp seemed to put a restraint on the spirits of the
others, some of whom greeted him by the name Jim, others ignoring him
entirely. Among these latter was the black-haired man who had given
Lambert his title and elevated him to the nobility of the Bad Lands. On
the face of it there was a crow to be picked between them.

Jim was belted with a pistol and heeled with a pair of those
long-roweled Mexican spurs, such as had gone out of fashion on the
western range long before his day. He leaned on his elbow near the fire,
his legs stretched out in a way that obliged Taterleg to walk round the
spurred boots as he went between his cooking and the supplies in the
wagon, the tailboard of which was his kitchen table.

If Taterleg resented this lordly obstruction, he did not discover it by
word or feature. He went on humming a tune without words as he worked,
handing out biscuits and ham to the hungry crew. Jim had eaten his
breakfast already, and was smoking a cigarette at his ease. Now and then
he addressed somebody in obscene jocularity.

Lambert saw that Jim turned his eyes on him now and then with sneering
contempt, but said nothing. When the men had made a hasty end of their
breakfast three of them started to the corral. The young man who had
humorously enumerated the virtues of the All-in-One, whom the others
called Spence, was of this number. He turned back, offering Lambert his
hand with a smile.

"I'm glad I met you, Duke, and I hope you'll do well wherever you
travel," he said, with such evident sincerity and good feeling that
Lambert felt like he was parting from a friend.

"Thanks, old feller, and the same to you."

Spence went on to saddle his horse, whistling as he scuffed through the
low sage. Jim sat up.

"I'll make you whistle through your ribs," he snarled after him.

It was Sunday. These men who remained in camp were enjo