that country. The cattlemen would be down on him; it would be a lucky chance if some of them didn't go gunning for him, Garland especially. Zora would have no further use for him; it was more than likely the best people in Pawnee Bend would turn the cold side of their faces to him when he went back there. Nobody but the saloon keepers got much out of the Texas cattlemen and their gangs, he knew, while present prosperity and future consequence depended on the increase of the cattle industry at the town's doors.
And there he was, Bill Dunham, a Kansan born and bred, leading in a herd of Texas cattle that might be dripping the seeds of plague which would clean the range down to bones. He felt so mean and worthless he could have sneaked off and disappeared if there had been any place to go.
There was no place to go. A man was mighty conspicuous in that country, where there wasn't a bush ahead of him as far as he could see big enough to hide a rabbit. He'd have to stick to it till night, then tell Hughes his future was in his own hands, return to Pawnee Bend, sell his horse and go on to New Mexico, where he could use the wisdom of his experience to guide him to a better start.
First he must contrive to get that letter of Zora's enclosing the telegram to Moore. The message might be important; maybe Moore had suffered damage already through the delay. Bill pulled up for a squint back to see how things were shaping, surprised to find himself at least a quarter of a mile ahead of the cattle. He must have struck a lope when he began to think
