A growl followed these words.  Many men in that company were less than half sober, and utterly irresponsible.

“Le’s jes’ hang the fool storekeepin’ gent right now; an’ make a free-fur-all holiday.  I’ll begin,” the drunken ruffian bawled.  He was of the sort that always leads a mob.

The growl deepened, for blood-lust and drunkenness go together.

Terrified for my uncle’s safety, I stood breathless, staring at the evil-faced crowd of men going suddenly mad, without excuse.  At the farthest edge of the insipient mob, sitting on his horse and watching my uncle’s face intently, was the very Mexican whom I had twice seen at Fort Leavenworth.  At the drunken rowdy’s challenge, I thought that he half-lifted a threatening hand.  But Esmond Clarenden only smiled, with a mere turn of his head as if in disapproval.  In that minute I learned my first lesson in handling ruffians.  I knew that my uncle was not afraid, and because of that my faith in his power to take care of himself came back.

“I want to leave here in half an hour.  If you have any good plains-broke mules you will sell for cash, I can do business with you right now.  If not, the sooner you leave this place the better.”

He lifted his small, shapely hand unclenched, his good-natured smile and gentlemanly bearing unchanged, but his low voice was stronger than all the growls of the crowd that fell back like whipped dogs.

As he spoke a horse-dealer, seeing the gathering before the store, came galloping up.

“I’m your man.  Money talks so I can understand it.  Wait five minutes and ten seconds and I’ll bring a whole strand of mules.”

A rattling of wagons and roar of voices at the far end of the street told of the arrival of a company coming in from the wharf at Westport, and the crowd whirled about and made haste toward the next scene of interest.

Only two men remained behind, the tall New England youth and the Mexican on the farther side of the street sitting motionless on his horse.  A moment later he was gone, and the street was empty save for the pale-faced invalid who had come over to the doorway where Mat and Beverly and I waited together.

“Why don’t you youngsters stay home with your mother, or is she going with you?” he asked, a gleam of interest lighting his dull face as he looked at Mat Nivers.

“We haven’t any of us got a mother,” Mat replied, timidly, lifting her gray eyes to his.

“Mother!  Ain’t you all one family?” the young man questioned in surprise.

“No, we are three orphan children that Uncle Esmond has adopted all our lives, I guess.”  Beverly informed him.

A wave of sympathy swept over his face.

“You poor, lonely, unhappy cubs!  You’ve never had a mother to love you!” he exclaimed, in kindly pity.

“We aren’t poor nor lonely nor unhappy.  We have always had Uncle Esmond and we didn’t need a mother,” I exclaimed, earnestly.