I'm not a backdoor man. I'm under favors to you for the many kindnesses you've done for me in this house. If they happen to get me, ma'am, there's money of mine left with Uncle Boley to pay you what I owe. Good-by, ma'am, and kindest wishes forever."
His heart was soft for the simple woman who had defied public sentiment to befriend him. Her faith had been like a flower in the desert. She was crying against the wall beside his door when he left her, and the sound of her sobbing reached him as he went down the stairs, like the grief of a mother who sees her son borne away to the grave.
Malcolm Duncan was standing just within the office door. Beyond him Hartwell saw many others blocking his way to the street. But he did not turn his eyes about, nor consider any other passage from the house. They had sent for him, and he had come, and his way lay straight ahead of him, as lays a man's way always when his conscience is clear.
Duncan stepped forward to meet Hartwell, holding out his hand.
"Texas, I want to apologize to you publicly, on my own account and on behalf of the Cattle Raisers' Association," he said.
Hartwell was so wrenched by this unexpected
