spare clothes corded in a neat bundle, with an old piece of canvas for
the covering. His father had taught him to pack.

Big Jim stared. Then a peculiar expression flitted across his face.
Little Jim was always for the main chance.

"I'm all hooked up to hit the trail, dad."

In his small blue overalls and jumper, in his alert and manful attitude,
Little Jim was a pocket edition of his father.

"Where's your shootin'-iron?" queried Big Jim jokingly.

"Why, she's standin' in the corner, aside of yours. A man don't pack his
shootin'-iron in his bed-roll when he hits the trail. He keeps her
handy."

"For stingin' lizards, eh?"

"For 'most anything. Stingin' lizards, Injuns, or hoss-thieves, or
anything that we kin shoot. We ain't takin' no chances on this here
trip."

Big Jim gestured toward the table and pulled up his chair. Little Jim
was too heartily interested in the meal to notice that his father gazed
curiously at him from time to time. Until then, Big Jim had thought of
his small son as a chipper, sturdy, willing boy--his boy. But now,
Little Jim seemed suddenly to have become an actual companion, a
partner, a sharer in things as they were and were to be.