est 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