As they crossed the track Dunham looked along to the place where Zora Moore had made her pretense of falling, wondering how much he had sunk in her regard when she learned that the man whom he was thought to have killed had only thrown a fit. He must have suffered a heavy come-down; no doubt she had discussed him fully with her father after arriving home, and the verdict had disqualified him for the job she had expressed her confidence of his ability to fill. He supposed he'd never see her again, and felt saddened by the reflection. She had him down wrong, and there would be no way for him ever to correct the record.
MacKinnon threw him a curious glance every few steps as they walked across the dusty road, as if he could not understand such unreasonable marching into the outspread arms of trouble when it could be so easily avoided by going the other way. He did not mention the man who rose up from his cooling-board to deny that he was dead.
Dunham parted with MacKinnon at the hotel door, from where he laid a diagonal course across the wide street toward the San Angelo café, which was the first in line from the railroad, and so called with a design on Texas trade. Several wagons were scattered along before the stores, with a number of saddled horses at the racks, which appeared to indicate unusual daylight business for that town. As he struck the sidewalk in front of the café, Dunham encountered Marsh Puckett, who had just stepped out of the barber shop next door.
There were few people moving about; up to that moment Dunham had not seen anybody, near nor far,
