nervous trigger-finger. Yeh, dad is pretty well known."
"You're his son?"
"I'm Jack Boone."
"But I've heard—tell me, do you look like your father?"
Jack Boone smiled, strove to frown, and then burst into surprisingly musical laughter. It came in bursts and ripples, and seemed that it would never end. His merriment ended slowly, for he saw the eyes of Pierre stare into blank distance, and knew that the man with the red hair was thinking of the woman whom the landslide had buried. Something that was partially sympathy and partially curiosity altered Jack's expression.
After all, it was very difficult to remain hostile in front of the steady blue eyes of this stranger.
Pierre said gravely: "Why am I under guard?"
Jack was instantly aflame with the old anger.
"Not because I want you here."
"Who does?"
"Dad."
"Put away your pop-gun and talk sense. I won't try to get away until Jim Boone comes. I only fight men."
Even the anger and grief of the boy could not keep him from smiling in his peculiarly winning way.
"Just the same I'll keep the shooting-iron handy. Sit still. A gun don't keep me from talking sense, does it? You're here to take Hal's place. Hal!"
The little wail told a thousand things, and Pierre,
