The Texan chewed tobacco placidly and eyed the cowpony.  The horse had been ridden so far that he was a bag of bones.

“Looks some gaunted,” he commented.

“Four Bits is so thin he won’t throw a shadow,” admitted the boy.

“Come a right smart distance, I reckon?”

“You done said it.”

“Where you headin’ for?”

“For Deaf Smith County.  I got an uncle there.  Saw your dust an’ dropped over to tell you that a big bunch of ’Paches are camped just ahead of you.”

The older man looked at him keenly.  “How do you know, son?”

“Smelt their smoke an’ cut their trail.”

“Know Injuns, do you?”

“I trailed with Al Sieber ’most two years.”

To have served with Sieber for any length of time was a certificate of efficiency.  He was the ablest scout in the United States Army.  Through his skill and energy Geronimo and his war braves were later forced to give themselves up to the troops.

“’Nuff said.  Are these ’Paches liable to make us any trouble?”

“Yes, sir.  I think they are.  They’re a bunch of broncos from the reservation an’ they have been across the line stealin’ horses an’ murderin’ settlers.  They will sure try to stampede your cattle an’ run off a lot of ’em.”

“Hmp!  You better go back an’ see old man Webb about it.  What’s yore name, kid?”

For just an eye-beat the boy hesitated.  “Call me Jim Thursday.”

A glimmer of a smile rested in the eyes of the Texan.  He was willing to bet that this young fellow would not have given him that name if to-day had not happened to be the fifth day of the week.  But it was all one to the cowpuncher.  To question a man too closely about his former residence and manner of life was not good form on the frontier.

“I’ll call you Jim from Sunday to Saturday,” he said, pulling a tobacco pouch from his hip pocket.  “My name is Wrayburn—­Dad Wrayburn, the boys call me.”

The Texan shouted to the man riding second on the swing.  “Oh, you, Billie Prince!”

A tanned, good-looking young fellow cantered up.

“Meet Jimmie Thursday, Billie,” the old-timer said by way of introduction.  “This boy says there’s heap many Injuns on the war-path right ahead of us.  I reckon I’ll let you take the point while I ride back with him an’ put it up to the old man.”

The “old man” turned out to be a short, heavy-set Missourian who had served in the Union Army and won a commission by intelligence and courage.  Wherever the name of Homer Webb was known it stood for integrity and square-dealing.  His word was as good as a signed bond.