St. Louis, two in St. Jo, and that the officers of justice were after him.  But it was evident that to precocious habits of drinking, smoking, chewing, and card-playing this overgrown youth added a strong tendency to exaggeration of statement.  Indeed, he was known as “Lying Jim Hooker,” and his various qualities presented a problem to Clarence that was attractive and inspiring, doubtful, but always fascinating.  With the hoarse voice of early wickedness and a contempt for ordinary courtesy, he had a round, perfectly good-humored face, and a disposition that when not called upon to act up to his self-imposed role of reckless wickedness, was not unkindly.

It was only a few days after the massacre, and while the children were still wrapped in the gloomy interest and frightened reticence which followed it, that “Jim Hooker” first characteristically flashed upon Clarence’s perceptions.  Hanging half on and half off the saddle of an Indian pony, the lank Jim suddenly made his appearance, dashing violently up and down the track, and around the wagon in which Clarence was sitting, tugging desperately at the reins, with every indication of being furiously run away with, and retaining his seat only with the most dauntless courage and skill.  Round and round they went, the helpless rider at times hanging by a single stirrup near the ground, and again recovering himself by—­as it seemed to Clarence—­almost superhuman effort.  Clarence sat open-mouthed with anxiety and excitement, and yet a few of the other teamsters laughed.  Then the voice of Mr. Peyton, from the window of his car, said quietly,—­

“There, that will do, Jim.  Quit it!”

The furious horse and rider instantly disappeared.  A few moments after, the bewildered Clarence saw the redoubted horseman trotting along quietly in the dust of the rear, on the same fiery steed, who in that prosaic light bore an astounding resemblance to an ordinary team horse.  Later in the day he sought an explanation from the rider.

“You see,” answered Jim gloomily, “thar ain’t a galoot in this yer crowd ez knows jist what’s in that hoss!  And them ez suspecks daren’t say!  It wouldn’t do for to hev it let out that the Judge hez a Morgan-Mexican plug that’s killed two men afore he got him, and is bound to kill another afore he gets through!  Why, on’y the week afore we kem up to you, that thar hoss bolted with me at camping!  Bucked and throwed me, but I kept my holt o’ the stirrups with my foot—­so!  Dragged me a matter of two miles, head down, and me keepin’ away rocks with my hand—­so!”

“Why didn’t you loose your foot and let go?” asked Clarence breathlessly.

“You might,” said Jim, with deep scorn; “that ain’t my style.  I just laid low till we kem to a steep pitched hill, and goin’ down when the hoss was, so to speak, kinder below me, I just turned a hand spring, so, and that landed me onter his back again.”

This action, though vividly illustrated by Jim’s throwing his hands down like feet beneath him, and indicating the parabola of a spring in the air, proving altogether too much for Clarence’s mind to grasp, he timidly turned to a less difficult detail.