The Sheriff's Son
"No-o."
"Gee! I was afraid you were my first. I like your looks. I'd hate for you to have the bad luck to get me for your lawyer." He laughed, boyishly. There was a very engaging quality about his candor.
The Irishman shot an abrupt question at him. "Are you John Beaudry's son—him that was fighting sheriff of Washington County twenty years ago?"
A hint of apprehension flickered into the eyes of the young man. "Yes," he said.
"Your father was a gr-reat man, the gamest officer that ever the Big Creek country saw. Me name is Patrick Ryan."
"Glad to meet any friend of my father, Mr. Ryan." Roy Beaudry offered his hand. His fine eyes glowed.
"Wait," warned the little cowpuncher grimly. "I'm no liar, whativer else I've been. Mebbe you 'll be glad you 've met me—an' mebbe you won't. First off, I was no friend of your father. I trailed with the Rutherford outfit them days. It's all long past and I 'll tell youse straight that he just missed me in the round-up that sent two of our bunch to the pen."
In the heart of young Beaudry a dull pre-
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