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 proclamation that he was off duty. 'Colonel Withers was here a few minutes ago threatenin' suit against the company if we furnished you cars to move them cattle. He says you stood him up under your gun and drove 'em off. I'm not here to judge, you understand, but that's what he said."

"Read this," said Tom, placing the bill of sale under the agent's eyes.

"It looks all right, but I can't do a thing," the nervous, worried agent said, hand on the window to pull it down. "The super says you'll have to settle the question of ownership between you before he'll furnish cars for anybody."

The agent shut the window, the panes of which were made opaque by an uneven coat of white paint, that had turned a yellowish tint. It seemed to Laylander that it was the curtain dropped between him and his hopes. Somebody had happened along, where nobody had passed in all the days he had ranged the cattle there, and turned Cal Withers loose. It must have been somebody appointed from the beginning, Tom thought in bitter reflection, to pull down the plans of his life, or he never would have appeared at that unfortunate conjunction. It was somebody born to make trouble. He'd like to see the color of his hair.

If the agent had done his duty in the first place and—ordered the cars; if he, himself, had started toward the Nation with the cattle instead of trying to do the thing this way; if this had happened and that had been done, it would not have come to this, Tom thought. But