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 would not have been all sound and fury, indeed, if Burnett had been available to her hand.

Dr. Hall gave her something in a glass that was black and bitter, bad-tasting enough to make her think it had a rectifying effect upon disordered senses whether it possessed that virtue in any degree at all. He influenced her to lie down, but that was such an unusual posture for her by daylight she could not endure it. She was up within an hour, pushing preparations for the evening meal, knowing very well that railroaders must be fed, let fortunes rise and fall as they may.

When the jerries came in for supper Mrs. Charles was calmer. She was going about her business with a wet towel around her head, her eyes red, her face swollen from much weeping. That was a very assuring state, Dr. Hall believed. The tear ducts are the safety valves of the burdened soul. The copious weeper is the one who easiest forgets.

Before that hour the news of Burnett's blow-up had gone over town. The county attorney had been asked to issue a warrant for him by representatives of Kansas City banks. Burnett had not been seen in Damascus for a week or more, nothing unusual in his active life. By the time the warrant was put in the sheriff's hands the spectacular cattleman had a start that was hopeless to overcome.

Gloom was heavy over the boarding-train that evening. Jerries sat along the shady side smoking after-supper pipes, talking in low tones, rolling sympathetic eyes toward the kitchen, nodding grave heads. Herself was in the deep waters of trouble; the jerries' hearts went out to her like life-buoys thrown from a wave