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 organization were quiescent, at that hour, lying off, as it were, with a sort of amiable deference, to give the town over to peaceful traffic and honest trading.

The sounds which reached Simpson as he labored with his load were assuring: the gabble of children at play, the hail of women from dooryard to dooryard, or across the street as they went about the business of the hour. His plan was to unload and drive away before the ruder life began to stir, after putting in the order for his car.

Tom quickly worked down to the last bone, which was a shinbone, and a noble one, of some ox that would have dressed eight hundred pounds. He stood holding it in his fist a while, looking down at the heap on the ground, thinking it was very small in comparison with the bulk of the freight car standing at his team's head. It would take many loads like that one to put enough in a car to justify freight, to say nothing of loading to capacity. But it was a beginning; there were plenty more where those came from, and a man out of a job, like one who had gambled away his money, had nothing to spend but his time.

He jumped at a sharp word behind him, turned, and looked into the bore of a large and efficient gun in the hands of an insignificant pale man whom he recognized as the city marshal.

"Put 'em up, pardner, and be damn sudden about it!" the marshal ordered, his voice grinding like a katydid's. His manner was determined, and his hand was steady, although his appearance was not entirely formidable.

Tom considered for a moment taking a chance with