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 head Laylander in, as Pap had put it, in railroad parlance.

"He was goin' to ship," Pap explained. "He'd 'a' been half loaded by now if somebody hadn't chanced along and let Withers go."

Banjo Gibson laughed. He was a little windmill that turned with every shifting breeze. He believed now that Pap's unfriendly feeling for Laylander indicated the current of railroad sentiment.

"Somebody sure put emery in his cylinders," he chuckled. "What's old man Withers goin' to do?"

"They say he's gone to pick up a gang and take the cattle away from the cow jerry," Pap replied indifferently. He stretched his arms, gaping prodigiously, to show how insignificant the thing was to him, and how greatly he was bored.

"I wonder where all the men are tonight?" Mrs. Cowgill speculated. "It's as quiet around here as the grave."

The row of chairs that stood in the street, that jury box from which the public and private affairs of McPacken were viewed and discussed, was empty. Those whose business or pleasure carried them past the Cottonwood Hotel walked in security.

"They're waitin' round to see if Withers comes back with his men," Myron said.

"Well, I wouldn't throw a hand to my gun in no squabble like that," Banjo declared.

"Me neither," said Pap.

"That cow jerry's got the name and fame of a