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 Tom was not greatly surprised to find the place where he had left his first load empty. There was not a bone, not a horn, nor even a tooth out of a jawbone. The mark of them was there in the soft ground, as well as man tracks and wagon tracks. A cattle car, partly loaded with bones, stood up the track a little way, its freight showing between its slatted siding. All evidence bore out the suspicion that his bones had been appropriated to help out that load not many hours before his arrival.

This time Tom did not take the seat off the wagon, but pushed it up near the dashboard, ready to move in an emergency without leaving it behind. He unloaded quickly, unhampered by even an onlooking citizen, public interest in him having passed on when he cleared the track. By the time he had emptied the wagon the train had pulled down below the station, where it lay on the dead end of track like a little chunky lizard in the sun. Everybody had gone from the depot, and the town had lapsed into its usual daytime state, the plaintive yelling of cowboys mingling with the lonesome lowing of cattle where the noisy work of loading was going on at the pens. These loading pens were on the other side of the lumber yard, not visible from Simpson's situation behind the depot. He had not one spectator of his homely activities.

Leaving his team standing, Tom went to the car which he had very good reason to believe had gobbled up his first jag of bones, as Mrs. Ellison had called the load. The car was only partly loaded; its side door stood open to receive additional freight. Waiting for him to bring it, Tom thought. Tom examined several skulls in the pile that