“I don’t think it,” returned Bucky contemptuously. “He’s the worst blowhard ever. Say the word and I’ll run the piker out of town for you.”
The boy whipped up the sleeve of the fancy Mexican jacket he wore and showed a long scar on his arm. “He did that one day when he was angry at me. He pretended to others that it was an accident, but I knew better. This morning I begged him to let me leave him. He beat me, but he was still mad; and when he took to drinking I was afraid he would work himself up to stick me again with one of his knives.”
Bucky looked at the scar in the soft, rounded arm and swept the boy with a sudden puzzled glance that was not suspicion but wonder.
“How long have you been with him, kid?”
“Oh, for years. Ever since I was a little fellow. He took me after my father and mother died of yellow fever in New Orleans. His wife hates me too, but they have to have me in the show.”
“Then I guess you had better quit their company. What’s your name?”
“Frank Hardman. On the show bills I have all sorts of names.”
“Well, Frank, how would you like to go to live on a ranch?”
“Where he wouldn’t know I was?” whispered the boy eagerly.
“If you like. I know a ranch where you’d be right welcome.”