"Ken, didn't you get my letter--the one telling you not to come West yet a
while?"
"No," I replied, blankly. "The last one I got was in May--about the middle.
I have it with me. You certainly asked me to come then. Dick, don't you
want me--now?"
Plain it was that my friend felt uncomfortable; he shifted from one foot to
another, and a cloud darkened his brow. But his blue eyes burned with a
warm light as he put his hand on my shoulder.
"Ken, I'm glad to see you," he said, earnestly. "It's like getting a
glimpse of home. But I wrote you not to come. Conditions have changed--
there's something doing here--I'll--"
"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.
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