I’m back; did you forget me? No reason you shouldn’t. My life would make a diverting book, but not as fast reading as Mr. Locke’s or Mr. Farmer’s. I wouldn’t be its hero, only its narrator. I’m the fellow who brought this whole affair to your attention, back when the West wasn’t anyone’s never-mind but the two men at the center. I reckon I should have took out the copyright when I had the chance. Apart from a couple of wranglers working the Wild West crew, I’d had no contact with any of my fellow Circle X hands in sixteen years, and nearer seventeen. They didn’t remember me, for which I was grateful, given the extent of my contribution to the outfit. That season I’d helped birth a foal—getting in the way mostly, ranch work and me being casual acquaintances at best. It’s a wonder that critter isn’t still in there. I think of that colt from time to time: scrawny thing, more leg than anything else, and not sure what to do with them except try to stand, and for the first half-hour or so he found that challenge enough, doing splits like an acrobatic dancer I paid a nickel to see in a shack in Dry Fork they called the Opera House.
