, no matter what he
had on or where he was."

This, too, was beyond Mandy. Sammy continued, as she finished her
preparations for retiring; "This here house is plenty big enough
for me, least wise it would be if it had one more room like the
cabin in Mutton Hollow; carpets would be mighty dirty and unhandy
to clean when the men folks come trampin' in with their muddy
boots; I wouldn't want to wear no dresses so fine I couldn't knock
'round in the brush with them; and it would be awful to have
nothin' to do; as for a carriage, I wouldn't swap Brownie for a
whole city full of carriages." She slipped into bed and stretched
out luxuriously. "Do you reckon I could be a fine lady, and be as
I am now, a livin' here in the hills?"

The next day Mandy went back to her home on Jake Creek. And in the
evening Sammy's father, with Wash Gibbs, returned, both men and
horses showing the effects of a long, hard ride.

CHAPTER VIII.

"WHY AIN'T WE GOT NO FOLKS."

Preachin' Bill says "There's a heap o' difference in most men, but
Jim Lane now he's more different than ary man you ever seed. Ain't
no better neighbor'n Jim anywhere. Ride out o' his way any time t'
do you a favor. But you bet there ain't ary man lives can ask Jim
any fool questions while Jim's a lookin' at him. Tried it onct
myself. Jim was a waitin' at th' ferry fer Wash Gibbs, an' we was
a talkin' 'long right peart 'bout crops an' th' weather an' such,
when I says, says I, like a dumb ol' fool, 'How'd you like it down
in Texas, Jim, when you was there that time?' I gonies! His jaw
shet with a click like he'd cocked a pistol, an' that look o'
hisn, like he was a seein' plumb through you, come int' his eyes,
an' he says, says he, quiet like, 'D' you reckon that rain over on
James yesterday raised th' river much?' An' 'fore I knowed it, I
was a tellin' him how that ol' red bull o' mine treed th' Perkins'
boys when they was a possum huntin'."

Many stories of the Bald Knobber days, when the law of the land
was the law of rifle and rope, were drifting about the country
side, and always, when these tales were recited, the name of Jim
Lane was whispered; while the bolder ones wondered beneath their
breath where Jim went so much with that Wash Gibbs, whose daddy
was killed by the Government.

Mr. Lane was a tall man, well set up, with something in his face
and bearing that told of good breeding; southern blood, one would
say, by the dark skin, and the eyes, hair