"You're a better man than I am, Jack," he asserted humbly.

"But it's hell for me to stand back and let you go into this thing alone.

I've got piles of confidence in you, old boy--but Jose never got that medal by saying 'pretty, please' and holding out his hand.

The best lassoer in California means something.

And he means to kill you--" "If I'll let him," put in Jack, stretching his lips in what passed for a grin.
"I know--but you've been off the range for two years, just about; and you've had a little over three weeks to make up for that lost practice." His eyes caught their two reflections in the glass, and something in Jack's made him smile ruefully.