"You goin' to kill Sneed?" queried young Jim enthusiastically.

"Nobody's goin' to get killed. But I aim to git my hosses."

Cheyenne turned to Jimmy. "You ride over and tell Uncle Frank and Aunt
Jane that me and Mr. Bartley'll be over after we eat."

"Will you sing that 'Git Along' song for me, dad?"

"You bet!"

"But why don't you come over and eat to our place? You always stop by,
every time you ride down this way," said Jimmy.

"You ride right along, like I told you, or you'll be late for your
supper."

Little Jim climbed into the saddle, and, turning to cast a lingering and
hopeful glance at Bartley,--a glance which suggested the possibilities
of further practice with the Luger gun,--he rode away, a manful figure,
despite his size.

"They're bringin' my kid up right," said Cheyenne, as though in
explanation of something about which he did not care to talk.