rock and knocking him foolish and taking him along to jail with a whole rind. It wouldn't do a bit of good to argue like that with a man in the cynical, patronizing manner Moore had assumed toward him. Dunham was as green to the range as they ever came, but he was wise enough to see that.
"No-o-o, they'd laugh you off of the range, kid," Moore told him, that intolerable gleam of laughter in his eyes, "they'd make it so hot for you you'd swivel up in your hide. I'll tell Brassfield to drive you over to town this morning, and you can take a train back home. I'll tell him to have Ruddy speak to Kellogg and keep him off of you—if he still feels like he wants to pick a fuss with a innocent misguided stray like you. 'Who in the hell said I was dead!'"
Moore quoted with simulation of indignant repudiation that was evidence of considerable rehearsal. Dunham knew no fertile places would he left unsown in Moore's travels for many a day. The thought made him feel so much like fighting that his face must have betrayed his desire, for Moore looked at him quite soberly, shaking his head.
"You couldn't fight it down, kid. Hell! you'd have to fight the whole country. The best thing a feller in your fix can do is to travel on till he gits to where they either know him well and pass over his cracks, or never heard of him. Brassfield'll take you to town after a while."
Brassfield was engaged just then in saddling a horse for his employer, listening with all his ears, although no great effort was required to hear Moore when he
