He had campaigned in Cuba as a mere boy. He had ridden the
range and held his own on the hurricane deck of a bucking
broncho. From cowpunching he had graduated into the tough little
body of territorial rangers at the head of which was "Hurry Up"
Millikan. This had brought him a large and turbulent experience
in the knack of taking care of himself under all circumstances.
Naturally, a man of this type, born and bred to the code of the
outdoors West, could not fail of a certain contempt for a boy
that broke down and cried when the game was going against him.
But Bucky's contempt was tolerant, after all. He could not deny
his sympathy to a youngster in trouble. Again he touched gently
the lad's crisp curls of burnished gold.
"Brace up, bub. The worst is yet to come," he laughed awkwardly.
"I reckon there's no use spillin' any more emotion over it. He
ain't your dad, is he?"
The lad's big brown eyes looked up into the serene blue ones and
found comfort in their strength. "No, he's my uncle--and my
master."
"This is a free country, son. We don't have masters if we're good
Americans, though we all have to take orders from our superior
officers.
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