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 been fresher at the end of the journey than the horses he was familiar with would have been at the end of twenty.

In his ignorance of his mount's capabilities, Bill figured on taking it easy until nine or ten o'clock that night, then bunking down on the soft side of a hollow. He could hit the road again at daybreak, and make it to the line about noon.

Not the same Bill Dunham in appearance as the one who had struck the he-woman of the railroaders' kitchen for a handout not more than three hours before, but a Bill Dunham who looked like any other range-roving cow hand, except for the uniform newness of his rig. Bill had preferred to keep his ignorance of usages and requirements from Garland, going to MacKinnon, instead, for advice.

He had bought boots and broad-brimmed hat, and blue-drilling overalls, wide in the leg, gray woolen shirt and a silk handkerchief as big as a tablecloth, it seemed to him, for his neck. Spurs he had passed up, fearing uncomfortable complications for both himself and horse if he should try them out. He had two blankets and a slicker back of his saddle, with some grub in the raw to hold him until he reached the camp, and a skillet to cook it, with a little pot for his coffee.

MacKinnon said he guessed the thirty-eight would do until he had another gun issued to him by the cattlemen. It didn't make so much difference what the size of the bullet was as the direction it went, when you came to figure it out, MacKinnon allowed. Bill said he guessed that was so, and they parted with mutual