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“Nomad’s sentiments are mine, parson,” seconded Wild Bill. “You go ahead and splice that couple at four o’clock, then blow in at the hotel and we’ll sit in together at the chuck table.”

“Thank you for your confidence in me,” said Jordan quietly. “You’ll find that I’m not a figurehead in the enterprise, I think. You are brave men, and pards of one of the bravest and most chivalrous Westerners the border has ever known. It is a pleasure to be engaged in such a venture with you. Adios, for the present.”

The slender, boyish figure turned and swiftly vanished. Old Nomad stood staring after him.

“Hickok,” said he, slowly turning to the Laramie man, “I’m er Piegan of thet sky pilot ain’t cuttin’ a wider swath in my regyard than I ever thort one could. He seems ther clear quill.”

“And so he is, if I know the brand. But I hope our ride to the Brazos won’t turn out a Sunday-school picnic.”

“Et won’t be ther parson’s fault ef et does,” chuckled the trapper. “Did ye mark his eye, Pard Hickok? Et’s what they calls a fightin’ eye. Ef necessary, I’ll bet a blue stack thet Jordan kin convart the heathen by an upper cut an’ a right hook ter ther jaw. Oh, I’m plumb gone on him.”