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 decently enough on a certain day. He wanted to get a line on public feeling regarding the Texas cattle, not quite convinced that the town stood a unit against him as MacKinnon had said.

Business was slack in the Casino, where Charley Mallon stood in white shirt and apron behind the bar, sleeves rolled up on his long stringy arms, ready for a rush, and in a cynical and surly humor because it did not come. A first-class bartender would not be able to maintain his social position unless things began to pick up pretty soon.

Mallon greeted Dunham like a prodigal come to spend. Here was one man who was doing something for his country, anyhow, let the rest of them in Pawnee Bend sleep on. Mallon said as much, although in different words. He was shining with admiration for Dunham's feat in conducting the Texans across the border. He suggested champagne.

When Dunham declined the drink which cattlemen regularly ordered with their catfish when out to impress the civilized centers, such as Wichita and Kansas City, with their sophistication and wealth, Mallon insisted on shaking one of his notable lemonades, to which he added an egg as a special mark of his esteem.

"You've done more for this town by openin' the trail to them Texas cowboys than any man ever done for it, Mr. Dunham," Mallon declared, or rather announced, his voice lifted for the benefit of his customers.

Bill put down the glass, which he had drained at one long pull, like the burgomaster of Rothenburg. He wiped the mucilage of raw egg from his chin, and stood