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 homesteaders were settling around them rapidly and there would be no more range left in a little while. A condition greatly to be desired, Tom thought. The nobler purpose of that land would be served by the plowman rather than the cowman. How much better a man felt swinging a scythe in a quiet, fruit-scented orchard than riding the long watches on the range! How much more a man!

That night as he sat in the comfortable kitchen after supper, feeling very much at home in the company of the two women who had accepted him on his face with such generous and open trust, Tom got to wondering if he didn't owe it to their hospitality to tell them something of himself. They must think it strange of him to go roving around with not so much as a change of clothing when the poorest cowboy on the drift had his roll behind the saddle. A polite consideration, unusual delicacy for people in their position, had restrained their curiosity on the turn of affairs which had led to his leaving his last stoppingplace without so much as an extra shirt.

They did not know whether he was a fugitive from justice or misfortune. He did not want to appear mysterious, but he had the inherent reluctance of his nation in making a public display of private difficulties. And now Mrs. Ellison was regarding him with motherly tenderness as he smoked his pipe, the filling supplied by Eudora from a large tin somebody had left on the kitchen shelf. Rather indifferent filling at that, but his own pouch was empty, and any man will agree that poor tobacco is far ahead of no tobacco in such a distressing contingency.