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 its outstretched hands, its easy optimism, was insupportable. Of Kay he dared not think at all.

What he craved, like a drunkard liquor, was the open country once more, and solitude. To be alone, and to look, off and off, to where behind some distant butte the sky kept rendezvous with the earth; or to follow some narrow twisting trail over the edge of the world and beyond. To feel once more the spring and warmth of a horse's body between his knees; to watch the sunrise on a frosty morning, and see the moisture rise like smoke from the backs of the warming herd; to ride in at night by starlight guided by some welcoming light, to the good company of strong men, and to be one of them.

And now, never more! All over. All done. All through.

After a time he moved on. The Indian woman had disappeared. The doctor had come out, got into his ancient car and rattled away. Lily May was dejectedly sitting on the porch. Tom pulled his hat down over his eyes and turned instinctively toward the back country and peace.

The move was purely instinctive. He was still weak; the sweat poured off his face, the hand which clutched the heavy stick was blistered; but by some volition, of the spinal cord rather than the brain perhaps, he kept on. His slow progress stirred up the thick dust, which settled on his haggard face and tortured young eyes. He was like some wounded animal, crawling off to die alone.

It must have been an hour before he realized that the draggled white poodle had followed him. He stopped and tried to send her back, but she only lay down and wriggled in the dust at his feet. He regarded her somberly.

"Come on, then," he said. "You're as much dog as I am man anyhow." . ..

He was very quiet when he got back to the hotel.

"Some of the boys are planning a celebration up in thirty-four tonight," Ed told him. "They want you there at eight o'clock."

"What are they celebrating? This leg of mine?"

But he knew he would have to go. They were his friends; the memory of their cordial greetings that morning was