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 of which ever had felt harness on its back before. From the way he went about it Tom knew there would be no fence knocked down that morning, no wagon hung up on the mighty gatepost. If there ever lived a master of his craft, Waco Johnson was that man. He went about his job so serenely, so cheerfully, and with such sublime confidence, that the raw team was conquered before the belly-band was buckled.

It was well past noon when Tom reached Drumwell, the rifle that he had used with such good effect against Wade Harrison in a scabbard under his leg, the revolver that had supplemented it in the fight strapped on him in regulation style. He had said nothing at the ranch about possible trouble awaiting him in town. He hoped, on his arrival, to pass unnoticed, or at least unrecognized by the marshal or any of those who had seen him in Kane's place on the night of his arrival at the border.

Another row with the marshal at that stage of his business development would be most undesirable. It might even amount to his forced retirement from the enterprise. He believed his chances of escaping notice were good, as he had changed his garb completely. Mrs. Ellison had assembled a cowboy outfit even to boots, which fitted him nicely, out of the accumulation of raiment around the place. He rode into Drumwell a changed man, as far as outward covering went, with chaparejos to his legs, spurs to his heels, a broad-brimmed sombrero that Ellison himself had worn. He carried the costume as one who had a right to all that it signified, which was in every sense true.

That was a lucky day for Tom Simpson to come to Drumwell. There were three cow outfits in town, one of