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 were permitting him to advance under guard. He rode on northward in a leisurely canter, with the feeling of a man whose time was all his own, and not so very valuable at that.

Dunham soldiered along, making little side excursions now and then to inspect the varying nature of the soil, with more the interest of agriculturist than stockman, delaying purposely to bring himself past the Moore ranch about noon. He believed he would have a better chance of slipping by unseen at that hour, when the family would be feeding in the heavy-going, earnest range fashion.

All was quiet there when he passed, the sun hot on his shoulders, hot in the dust-white road. A few horses were dozing, neck over neck, in the corral; they lifted their heads and set their ears in a listless interest when they heard him. A few hens lolling in dust-wallows beside the road cut for the fence, expressing chicken resentment over the disturbance, which is a weak kind of protest at the best. Dunham felt a crawling thrill of apprehension in his scalp at the cackling. He feared one of the boys would pop out to see who was going by, and shout the news to Zora.

It would be an awkward thing to explain to Zora that he was the kind of a man who couldn't stay hired, in spite of her confident assurance that he'd stick this time. One explanation would involve another, and Zora would be the girl who could say things to make a man squirm. So Bill breathed easier when he had passed the house and rounded the little point of cottonwoods at the bend of the road.