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 talked in the open. Dunham knew the teamster hadn't lost a word. Moore went into the house and Brassfield went dawdling off about some business of his own, both of them quitting Dunham as a trivial person worthy of no further notice.

Dunham returned to the bunk house where he had slept, turbulent with resentment of this treatment. He scorned the hospitality of a man who was so blatant and coarse. Maybe he knew his business, but he didn't know anything else. It was humiliating, degrading, to be under obligation to such a boor. Bill buckled on his gun, picked up his suitcase and started away.

He was hot to the backbone over the treatment he had received there, mocked and derided by this loud-mouthed ruffian because good fortune had made his aim poor and saved the life of a man. If he had killed the afflicted simpleton Moore would have been talking softly out of the other side of his mouth.

"Lord love you, Mr. Dunham! you're not goin' to walk, are you?"

It was Mollie Brassfield shouting after him. She was standing in the door with her little pipe, which was stronger for its size than any pipe Dunham ever had met. She came hurrying after him when he lifted his hat and waved his hand in farewell without a word. There was one little piece of sincerity and courtesy around that place, he thought, with a sympathetic feeling for the poor soul whose long wanderings were marked with her children's graves.

"You wait till after dinner and Shad he'll haul you over," she begged, rather than invited, her manner was