So that day passed, uneventfully, Dunham's horse at the rack in front of the hotel, except for the time it was putting away a stiff feed of oats in the livery barn. And then Dunham sat around waiting while the animal made its leisurely, luxurious meal. He chatted with the liveryman, who was distant, but respectful.
The story of Dunham's exploit had gone not only to the utmost sod hut in Pawnee Bend by that time, but to the far places of the range as well. He had brought the Texas herd across in the face of seventy-five or eighty men without pulling a gun. It was something to command respect, if no especial admiration. When a man came among them in Pawnee Bend who never pulled his gun except to use it, they walked humbly in his presence. He was a pretty good sort of man to leave alone.
Dunham kept his horse hitched in front of the hotel until after dark, the scuffed and worn scabbard, with its battered rifle-stock showing, hung on the saddle-horn. Nothing happened to disturb the serenity of the town, which appeared to be getting along very well without a marshal. It was nearly nine o'clock when he took the horse to the livery barn to leave it for the night. That done, he took a stroll around town, making himself as inconspicuous as possible, hoping to avoid the windy Bergen in case he might be abroad.
Few men were in town that night, probably due to the fact that everybody available had been called to the border or put under orders to stand ready to be called. Dunham thought it would be only a neighborly act to drop in and see Charley Mallon, who had treated him
