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 Texas with them. No court would recognize Cal Withers's judgment there.

They swung off on the trail of the cattle, Tom pretty well in the lead. He rode with his head up, his eyes and thoughts fixed far ahead of him, it seemed. Little was said as they covered the few miles to the Indian Territory line. Four or five miles on the other side they found the herd. It was spread out in good grazing order, picketed by four men.

"Well, there's your cows," said Jim, turning to the deputy sheriffs, waving his hand toward the herd.

Tom halted, as if indecisive; the deputies rode forward in eager haste. Maud and Louise drew up beside Tom, Jim lounging in his saddle a little to one side, greatly interested in the movement of the deputy sheriffs, and the man who rode out from the herd to meet them.

"You're not going to let them drive the cattle back, are you, Tom?" Louise inquired. She leaned and touched his arm, as if to call him from his abstraction, anxiety in her voice.

"There's nothing else to be done," Tom replied.

"Why, after all they've—after all that's been—after—after everything—surely you'll not do that, Tom?"

Jim and Maud were talking apart a little way, throwing quick glances at Tom now and then.

"It's not Colonel Withers's gang," said Tom.

"Of course it isn't!" Louise returned sharply, out of patience with his stupidity.

Jim and Maud rode on; the others followed, nothing