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 That called for another handshake, and an expression of regret from Waco that there was no bar to line up along and drink a round to such agreeable news. He could not have been much happier if the important change had been impending in his own state. He had much to say in praise of Eudora Ellison, his highest encomium being that she was the kind of a girl that just naturally wouldn't let a man die. There were two living examples of her determination beside that fire, he said, and he wound up his talk, complimentary and advisory, with these words, solemnly delivered as if drawn from the treasure house of a vast experience:

"Take 'em one at a time, and fur apart, Tom. That's my advice to you."

They were on the road before sunrise next morning, and at the ranch a little after noon. Eudora was at the gate to meet them, and Waco, driving in the lead, stopped his wagon between the gateposts to lean down and shake hands with her as if he had not seen her in a long, long time. There was the warmth of sincere wishes, the tenderness of sincere friendship, in Waco's eyes as he held her hand a little while, bending down from his high perch, his foot on the brake.

"Hello, Eudory,"—his voice, his tender touch, his broad-spreading red grin telling her that he knew it all: "How you likes to be a w'ale?"

Ten years and prosperity had made little change in Waco Johnson. He still wore a queer outfit half way between cowboy and country banker, although he seldom straddled a horse. Distance between his enterprises was