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 over his heart; a shock of surprise came to him when he found his .45 reposing snugly under its spring.

The weapon had been in his pocket when he came to grips with Zang Whistler. The outlaw's act of restoring the gun to its place rather than confiscating it as a prize of war was a graceful courtesy not lost on Original. After all, had not he and Zang Whistler ridden trail together through hot sun and thunderstorm back in the old days before Zang took to carrying a running iron, before he was blackballed as a brand smoker? This incident of the gun remaining inviolate was but a touch of that chivalry of the cattle clan which made Zang Whistler and Original Bill Blunt kin despite the private warfare between them. As for the girl Hilma—that blond-haired mountain cat who had pounded him into insensibility when she found shooting impossible—the range inspector's brain was still too clouded to grapple with this complexity in the situation.

He helped himself to his feet by a grip on the table edge, staggered to the water pail and plunged his burning head into its cold depths. Strength came rushing back to him with the