It must have been well past midnight that he caught the long
breath of a sigh behind him. The trail had broadened at that
point, for they were now down in the rolling plain, so that two
could ride abreast in the road. Bucky fell back and put a
sympathetic hand on the shoulder of the boy.
"Plumb fagged out, kid?" he asked.
"I am tired. Is it far?"
"About four miles. Stick it out, and we'll be there in no time."
"Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir. Call me Bucky."
"Yes, sir."
Bucky laughed. "You're ce'tainly the queerest kid I've run up
against. I guess you didn't scramble up in this rough-and-tumble
West like I did. You're too soft for this country." He let his
firm brown fingers travel over the lad's curly hair and down the
smooth cheek. "There it is again. Shrinking away as if I was
going to hurt you. I'll bet a biscuit you never licked the
stuffing out of another fellow in your life."
"No, sir," murmured the youth, and Bucky almost thought he
detected a little, chuckling laugh.
"Well, you ought to be ashamed of it. When come back from old
Mexico I'm going to teach you how to put up your dukes.
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