"You needn't explain, Dick," I replied, gravely. "I know. Buell and--" I waved
my hand from the sawmill to the encircling slash.

Dick's face turned a fiery red. I believed that was the only time Dick
Leslie ever failed to look a fellow in the eye.

"Ken! . . . You're on," he said, recovering his composure. "Well, wait till
you hear-- Hello! here's Jim Williams, my pardner."

A clinking of spurs accompanied a soft step.

"Jim, here's Ken Ward, the kid pardner I used to have back in the States,"
said Dick. "Ken, you know Jim."

If ever I knew anything by heart it was what Dick had written me about this
Texan, Jim Williams.

"Ken, I shore am glad to see you," drawled Jim, giving my hand a squeeze
that I thought must break every bone in it.

Though Jim Williams had never been described to me, my first sight of him
fitted my own ideas. He was tall and spare; his weather-beaten face seemed
set like a dark mask; only his eyes moved, and they had a quivering
alertness and a brilliancy that made them hard to look into. He wore a wide
sombrero, a blue flannel shirt with a double row of big buttons, overalls,
top-boots with very high heels, and long spurs. A heavy revolver swung at
his hip, and if I had not already known that Jim Williams had fought
Indians and killed bad men, I should still have seen something that awed me
in the look of him.