it, least of all those who best knew his lack of humor. He had
come to them out of the Nowhere, some four years previously, and
while he never spoke of himself, and discouraged reminiscence in
others, it became known through those vague uncharted channels by
which news travels on the frontier, that back in the Texas
Panhandle there was a limping marshal who felt regrets at mention
of his name, and that farther north were other men who had a
superstitious dread of undersized cow-men with spectacles. There
were also stories of lonesome "run-ins," which, owing to Willie's
secretiveness and the permanent silence of the other
participants, never became more than intangible rumors. But he
was a good ranchman, attended to his business, and the sheriff's
office was remote, so Willie had worked on unmolested.

"This here is a real foot-runner," said Stover.

"Exactly," agreed the other. "Where is he?"

"He'll be here this afternoon. Nigger Mike's bringin' him over
from the railroad. He's a guest."

"Oh!"

"Yep! He's intercollegit champeen of Yale."

"Yale?" repeated the near-sighted man. "Don't know's I ever been
there. Much of a town?"

"I ain't never travelled East myself, but Miss Jean and the
little yaller-haired girl say he's the fastest man in the world.