The Last of the Plainsmen 



distracted by another dog fight. Don had tackled 

 Moze for the seventh time. Memory rankled in 

 Don, and he needed a lot of whipping, some of which 

 he was getting when I rescued him. 



Next moment I was shaking hands with Frank and 

 Jim, Jones s ranchmen. At a glance I liked them 

 both. Frank was short and wiry, and had a big, 

 ferocious mustache, the effect of which was softened 

 by his kindly brown eyes. Jim was tall, a little 

 heavier; he had a careless, tidy look; his eyes were 

 searching, and though he appeared a young man, his 

 hair was white. 



&quot; I shore am glad to see you all,&quot; said Jim, in slow, 

 soft, Southern accent. 



&quot; Get down, get down,&quot; was Frank s welcome a 

 typically Western one, for we had already gotten 

 down; &quot; an come in. You must be worked out. 

 Sure you ve come a long way.&quot; He was quick of 

 speech, full of nervous energy, and beamed with 

 hospitality. 



The cabin was the rudest kind of log affair, with a 

 huge stone fireplace in one end, deer antlers and 

 coyote skins on the wall, saddles and cowboys traps 

 in a corner, a nice, large, promising cupboard, and a 

 table and chairs. Jim threw wood on a smoldering 

 fire, that soon blazed and crackled cheerily. 



I sank down into a chair with a feeling of blessed 



