desks and counters, and surrounded him. He had brought to their circumscribed lives a touch of romance and color; he had traveled, been applauded and had his picture in the papers day after day. Then he had been shot, and no sooner had the town had the thrill of that when it learned that he had married Kay Dowling! For forty years the Dowling name had been one to conjure with in that part of the state, and now Tom—their Tom—had married a Dowling!
"Say, lemme touch you for luck, boy."
"You bet. But you don't call this leg luck, do you?"
"Well, look who's here! Why, Tom, you old son of a gun, when did you get back?"
"Last night."
"Missis with you?"
"Yes. We're at the Martin House for a day or so. Come in and see us."
"Sure will."
He expanded, the sense of constriction around his heart left him.
He asked questions. The Mallorys were all right. The Potter Cattle Company had been putting in some scientific sheep pens and dipping vats. And Bill was still on the railroad and seemed to like it.
But he passed the Emporium without looking in.
Finally, however, he had left the business portion of the street behind him, and his exhilaration gradually left him. The end of his cane seemed to sink in the hot paving, and small beads of sweat broke out on his face. Once when he was a youngster, about to ease himself into the saddle in his first bucking contest, he had known the same feeling of now or never. Only then he had been alone. If he broke his back or his neck it was his business. Now
The doctor was at home. His ancient Ford was at the curb, but the old man himself was inside the open door, carefully pouring something out of a bottle onto the back of a woebegone little French poodle.
"Beats me," he said, scarcely looking up, "where she gets the dratted things. Stand still, Lily May, stand still!"
Tom grinned. He knew the old doctor. The little dog
