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 walking carefully, and going up the street he bought the very blue suit, the hat, the yellow shoes. He could only fit one shoe, but what did that matter? Soon he would be on his way; he thought of that earlier trip of his from Chicago, the sticky children with their warm small bodies, the day coach, even the contretemps at the club house later on. Like the shoe, what did that matter now? Things were different this time. Kay was his wife, his own wife. She had not planned to leave him, and when he told her how he loved her—if only he could find the words—she would come back.

He whistled as he got the old car from the garage, and let the clutch in. Careful? Of course he would be careful. He was taking mighty good care of that leg from now on; there was a reason, a darned good reason.

"Well, so long, Tom. She's got a gallon of gas and a pint of water."

"What do you think I'm doing to her? Trying to wean her?"

He was off, on his way to the ranch. His bundles bounced in the rear, the loose rattled, and once out of town, for the first time in months he began to sing under his breath:

Two days after he got back he knew that the rustlers had been at work again, and that he had lost practically his entire herd.

He was ruined.