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 there by noon. It's only forty-odd miles from here."

"I think maybe I'd better rack along to-night," he said, the memory of his departure from that spindle-columned mansion making him seem unfriendly and unforgiving.

They had come to the gate. Zora looked disappointed and hurt as she rested her hand on the lever to swing it open.

"That's saying you don't feel you're welcome here," she said, facing him squarely, a plea in her eyes to make amends. Bill felt like a kicked dog when she turned her head and said, a tremor in her voice as if she was going to cry: "You don't need to rub it in on me that way, Mr. Dunham."

"Miss Moore, it never crossed my mind!" Bill denied fervently, even though it was not entirely true.

"Then please stay. I'll go a piece with you in the morning and start you on the right road. If you don't stay I'll not let you take the telegram—I'll go myself, but I'll take another road."

"Any man," said Bill decisively, swinging to the ground, "would be a blame horse-thief to let you go."

Zora turned to him again with a smile, which was chiefly in her eyes, a friendly and feeling smile that made a man welcome beyond words. She flung out of the saddle to the dusty driveway leading past the bunk house to the corral, saying she would run in and send the kids out to unsaddle the horses, and for Bill to make himself ready for supper, which must be waiting.

Bill took a pretty keen look over his horse, "for leaks," he said to himself, pleased to see it had come