cacy, which she bore high on her shoulder like a hod, when the man walked into the dining-room, his spurs clicking on the floor, his hat-brim pushed up flat against the crown as if a strong wind struck him in the face.
And by the hush that fell, like the silence of a broken fiddle-string, Texas Hartwell knew that the stranger was Zebedee Smith, the man who had gone to the Nation to look around.
