ebooter born out of time and place. He called himself a thief--he
wasn't one. He hadn't the first instincts of one--no secrecy, no dark
night stuff, no lying. He never denied a raid if he made one. And
never did worse when the big cattlemen protested, than to tell them to
go to hell. He had a bunch of old Barb's calves branded along with his
own one year: 'Well, you're the coolest rustler in the Falling Wall,' I
says to him. 'They're my share of Barb's spring drop,' was all he
said. You know he lent Barb all his savings one year--that was when he
used to save money, before his wife died. He never got a red cent of
it back, never even asked for it. But when he wanted money he'd drive
off some of Barb's steers. Yes, Abe stole cattle, I admit; yet I don't
call him a thief--not today, anyway," said John, raising his glass.
"Why, if Abe Hawk owed a man a hundred dollars he'd pay him if he had
to steal every cow in the Falling Wall to do it. But take a hoof from
a poor man!" he went on, freshened, "The poor men all used to run to
Abe when Dutch Henry or Stormy Gorman branded their calves. They'd
yell fire and murder. And Abe would make the blamed thieves drive
their calves back! You know that, Jim." Lefever between breaths threw
the appeal for confirmation across at Laramie who sat moodily listening
and trying without success to interest himself in a drink that stood
untouched before him.

Laramie made no response. "Have it your own way, John," nodded Carpy
tolerantly, "have it your own way. But whatever they say against old
Barb, the man ain't livin' that can say a word against his girl--not
while I'm in hearing. And I'll tell you, you could have knocked me
over with a feather when I seen her this afternoon and she bound to
ride in that procession behind Abe Hawk."

"What do you mean?" asked Lefever.

"I mean riding to the graveyard," insisted Carpy.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lefever, to bring out the story.
"You never saw it."

"I'll tell you what I saw." Only those who knew Laramie well could
have told how keenly he was listening. "I drove down Hill Street,"
said the doctor, "just after the funeral started, and sat there, quiet,
to one side, waiting for it to pass; a doctor's got no business around
funerals. Right then, Kate Doubleday pulled up close to me on
horseback. She was just from the trail, that was sure; her horse
showed the pace and the girl was excited--I seen that when s