The young man stared at me as I spoke.  “What’s he, a bachelor or married man?” he inquired.

“He couldn’t be married and keep us, I reckon, and he’s taking us with him so nothing will happen to us while he’s gone.  He’s really truly Bev’s uncle and mine, but he’s just the same as uncle to Mat, who hasn’t anybody else,” I declared, enthusiastically.  Uncle Esmond was my pride, and I meant that he should be fully appreciated.

The Yankee gazed at all three of us, his eyes resting longest on Mat’s bright face.  The listlessness left his own that minute and a new light shone on his countenance.  But when he turned to my uncle the seeming lack of all interest in living returned to his face again.

“Say,” he drawled, looking down at the stubborn little merchant from his slim six feet of altitude, “you are such a dam’ fool as our friend, the tipsy one, says, that I believe I’ll go along ’cross the plains with you, if you’ll let me.  I’ve not got a darned thing to lose out there but a sick carcass that I’m pretty tired of looking after,” he went on, wearily.  “I reckon I might as well see the fun through if I never set a hoof on old Plymouth Rock again.  My granddaddy was a minute-man at Lexington.  Say”—­he paused, and his sober face turned sad—­“if all the bean-eaters who claim their grandpas were minute-men tell the truth, there wasn’t no glory in winning at Lexington, there was such a tremendous sight of ’em.  I’ve heard about eight million men myself make the same claim.  But my granddad was the real article in the minute-men business.  And I’ve always admired his grit most of any man in the world.  He was about your shape, I reckon, from his picture that old man Copley got out.  But, man! he wasn’t a patchin’ on your coat-sleeve.  You are the preposterous-est unlawful-est infamous-est man I ever saw.  It’s just straight murder and suicide you are bent on, takin’ this awful chance of plungin’ into a warrin’, snake-eatin’ country like New Mexico, and I like you for it.  Will you take me as an added burden?  If you will, I’ll deposit the price of my state-room right now.  I’ve got only a little wad of money to get well on or die on.  I can spend it either way—­not much difference which.  My name is Krane, Rex Krane, and in spite of such a floopsy name I hail from Boston, U.S.A.”

There was a hopeless sagging about the young man’s mouth, redeemed only by the twinkle in his eye.

Esmond Clarenden gave him a steady measuring look.  He estimated men easily, and rarely failed to estimate truly.

“I’ll take you on your face value,” he answered, “and if you want to turn back there will be a chance to do it out a hundred miles or more on the trail.  You can try it that far and see how you like it.  I’ll furnish you your board.  There are always plenty of bedrooms on the ground floor and in one of the wagons on rainy nights.  You can take a shift driving a team now and then, and every able-bodied man has to do guard duty some of the time.  You understand the dangers of the situation by this time.  Here comes my man,” he added, as the horse-dealer appeared, leading a string of mules up the street.