“No, you don’t,” Patches cut in with decisive force.  “Joe, stay where you are!”

Nick paused.  “What do you mean by that?” he growled.

“I mean,” returned Patches, “that Joe is free to go with you, or not, as he chooses.  Joe,” he continued, addressing the cause of the controversy, “you need not go with this man.  If you wish, you can come with me.  I’ll take care of you; and I’ll give you a chance to make a man of yourself.”

Nick laughed coarsely.  “So, that’s your game, is it?  Well, it won’t work.  I know now why Bill Baldwin’s got you hangin’ ‘round, pretendin’ you’re a tenderfoot, you damned spy.  Come on, Joe.”  He turned to ride on; and Joe, with a slinking, sidewise look at Patches, started to follow.

Again Patches called, “Wait, Joe!” and his voice was almost pleading.  “Can’t you understand, Joe?  Come with me.  Don’t be a dog for any man.  Let me give you a chance.  Be a man, Joe—­for God’s sake, be a man!  Come with me.”

“Well,” growled Nick to his follower, as Patches finished, “are you comin’ or have I got to go and get you?”

With a sickening, hangdog look Joe mumbled something and rode after his master.

As they disappeared up the trail, Nick called back, “I’ll get you yet, you sneakin’ spy.”

“Not after you’ve had time to think it over,” answered Patches cheerfully.  “It would interfere too much with your real business.  I’ll leave your gun at the gate of that old corral up the wash.  Good-by, Joe!”

For a few moments longer the strange man stood in the glade, listening to the vanishing sounds of their going, while that mirthless, self-mocking smile curved his lips.

“Poor devil!” he muttered sadly, as he turned at last to make his way back to his horse.  “Poor Joe!  I know just how he feels.  It’s hard—­it’s beastly hard to break away.”

“I’m afraid I have made trouble for you, sir,” Patches said ruefully to the Dean, as he briefly related the incident to his employer and to Phil that afternoon.  “I’m sorry; I really didn’t stop to think.”

“Trouble!” retorted the Dean, his eyes twinkling approval, while Phil laughed joyously.  “Why, man, we’ve been prayin’ for trouble with that blamed Tailholt Mountain outfit.  You’re a plumb wonder, young man.  But what in thunder was you aimin’ to do with that ornery Yavapai Joe, if he’d a’ took you up on your fool proposition?”

“Really, to tell the truth,” murmured Patches, “I don’t exactly know.  I fancied the experiment would be interesting; and I was so sorry for the poor chap that I—­” he stopped, shamefaced, to join in the laugh.

But, later, the Dean and Phil talked together privately, with the result that during the days that followed, as Patches and his teacher rode the range together, the pupil found revolver practice added to his studies.

The art of drawing and shooting a “six-gun” with quickness and certainty was often a useful part of the cowboy’s training, Phil explained cheerfully.  “In the case, for instance, of a mixup with a bad steer, when your horse falls, or something like that, you know.”