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 things to her; was he going after more liquor? Some of the Mexicans at Judson were bootlegging. Or again, maybe he had brought some with him from town, and secreted it somewhere? In the barn, maybe.

White and wide-eyed, very near the point of a nervous collapse if she had known it, she waited until he had gone, and then went out, past the breaking corral to the barn. But she found no liquor. What she did find, hidden under his saddle, was Tom's boot, one of that handsome pair which he had put on so proudly. Rather than ask her, he had slit it with a knife. Rather than ask her.

He did not come back until late that night. Then he stalked into the house, the bruise on his cheek an even darker purple, laid the Ursula paper before her without a word and stalked out again. His supper was waiting, but he had not so much as glanced at the table.

She looked at the paper. He had marked a paragraph. It was entitled "Is riding dead in the West?" and ran as follows: "Anyone who believes that this country is not raising riders equal to any, should have watched Tom McNair yesterday in his battle with the Cheyenne horse, Satan, which came here with a record of never having been ridden before. The horse had thrown two good men on previous days, and only by clever work was Bert Ramson, on Thursday, saved from being trampled to death by the killer.

"Yesterday, McNair, who is still badly handicapped from a recent injury, fought the horse to a standstill"

But she did not finish. She was on her way to the barn.

Tom was just outside, unloading some packages from the car. He did not stop when she reached him.

"I'm sorry," she panted. "I can't bear it, Tom."

"Well," he said, without any particular feeling in his voice, "those little mistakes will happen."

She put her hand on his arm, but he evaded her and carried his parcels inside. When he came out again he stopped a little distance from her, and began to roll a cigarette.

"But if I say I'm sorry!"