I hope I am not going to be called nervous if I tell the truth about things; when I rode into the shadow I stopped whistling a bad imitation of meadow-lark notes.

A bit farther and I pulled up, looked all around, and got off and tightened the cinch a bit more.

Shylock--I always rode him when I could--threw his head around and nearly took a chunk out of my arm, and in reproving him I forgot, for a minute, the ticklish game I was playing.

Then I loosened my gun--I had learned to carry it inconspicuously under my coat, as did the other boys--made sure it could be pulled without embarrassing delay, and went on.

Around the next turn a five-wired fence stretched across the trail, with a gate fastened by a chain and padlock.