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 ness of his life. It appeared to him now that this time had come; that he'd better get himself a set of harness and strap the thirty-eight around his tank.

Still, he felt that he might be crowding matters a little when he came down to supper with the gun on, the new leather of his belt and holster stiff and creaking. He hid the gun as well as he could by keeping his coat buttoned, but the coat was short and the gun was long. It would assert its presence by a bulge, and a protrusion below the skirt of his coat.

He didn't want anybody to think he was out to pick a fuss, but he believed the time had come to wear a gun. That cowboy might come back looking for him, with a bunch of friends. The wise thing was to have a gun handy, even if he didn't use it. Appearances Are Everything.

With this thought standing out in his mind to excuse the unfamiliar weight of cartridge belt and gun, Dunham went out to look the town over after dark. It was a question to him where the business to maintain the place came from, situated as it was in the midst of a land believed to be far beyond the limit of agricultural possibility. Dunham had seen a few weak attempts at farming in the river valley as he approached Pawnee Bend, wide-scattered poor homesteads, looking more like temporary camps than homes.

In fact there was not much to give business stability in Pawnee Bend at that time. The custom that came to its doors was of the sort, mainly, that gets its money today, spends it tonight, and tomorrow goes off in considerable dejection to gather up another wad.