“‘We’ll have to take you back to Texas,’ says I.
“‘I’d like to go back,’ says the boy, with a kind of a grin—‘if it wasn’t on an occasion of this kind. It’s the life I like. I’ve always wanted to ride and shoot and live in the open air ever since I can remember.’
“‘Who was this gang of stout parties you took this trip with?’ I asks.
“‘My stepfather,’ says he, ‘and some business partners of his in some Mexican mining and land schemes.’
“‘I saw you shoot Pedro Johnson,’ says I, ‘and I took that little popgun away from you that you did it with. And when I did so I noticed three or four little scars in a row over your right eyebrow. You’ve been in rookus before, haven’t you?’
“‘I’ve had these scars ever since I can remember,’ says he. ‘I don’t know how they came there.’
“‘Was you ever in Texas before?’ says I.
“‘Not that I remember of,’ says he. ‘But I thought I had when we struck the prairie country. But I guess I hadn’t.’
“‘Have you got a mother?’ I asks.
“‘She died five years ago,’ says he.