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 "Zora," the mayor turned to the girl, who stood with back to the counter, leaning a little in a lounging, interested pose, "couldn't you folks take him on over at the ranch?"

"I don't know," she replied, in a cautious, noncommittal way, as if she did know very well, but didn't want to bind herself. "The association is taking on some men for the quarantine guard—pa's coming in on the nine-twenty from Kansas City; he'll know."

"Yes, and a hell of a lot of good it'll do this man if he's comin' at two minutes past nine! He can't hang around here and wait for that train."

"He might walk on down the road toward our place and we could pick him up," the girl suggested.

"There was a cowboy in here this afternoon lookin' for a buyer for his horse and saddle," the mayor said, thoughtfully, as if contriving a way to piece out the problem of getting Bill Dunham out of town before nine o'clock. "I think he left the horse with the liveryman to sell—you might go over and find out. He was askin' forty-five dollars for the outfit. I expect the saddle cost him more than that."

"Thanks. It sounds cheap enough," Bill said.

"If you can't ride a horse you didn't have any business comin' to this country," the mayor said sharply, regarding Dunham with disfavoring eyes. "Don't hang around expectin' me to step in and save your skin this time. If you do you'll be layin' on a board by the side of that feller they're pickin' up out there."

Dunham made no reply. The girl had turned her