To the camp of the enemy; but it was not his enemy.
That was Bill Dunham's thought as he crossed the river and headed south, keeping to the old cattle trail. There was no loyalty owing to those behind him, not even as citizens of his native state. They were to him as strangers in a strange land, and he had contemptuous doubt on the loyalty of any one of them to anything in the soil of Kansas but the grass. They were exploiters, out to profit on a range they did not own, lease or pay tribute for the use of to the extent of one lone dime.
They had insulted him, put affronts on him, and hurt him as cruelly as he ever had been injured in his life. It was worse that he had the means within the reach of his hand to salt their hides, but had restrained his passions out of respect to himself and consideration for his own internal peace. He didn't want to kill anybody else. It was better to bear insult and injustice than to face the agony and self-crimination, and the sweat of remorse in the night.
He had a grudge to pay those Kansas cowmen, and the shortest cut to it was to ride down until he met the Texas drover, offer his services, pay or no pay, in helping get his cattle to Pawnee Bend. He knew there was
