Through the open door came the far-away rattle
of wheels. He tossed some money onto the bar, walked to the door, and
stood gazing down the trail toward the cloud of grey dust that grew
dimmer and dimmer in the distance. At last, it disappeared altogether,
and only the trail remained, winding like a great grey serpent toward
the distant black buttes of the Judith Range. He started to re-enter
the saloon, paused with his foot on the threshold and stared down the
empty trail, then facing abruptly about he swung into the saddle,
turned his horse's head northward, and rode slowly out of town. At the
little creek he paused and stared into the piney woods. A tiny white
flower lay, where it had been dropped in the trail, at the feet of his
horse, and he swung low and recovered it. For a long time he sat
holding the little blossom in his hand. Gently he drew it across his
cheek. He remembered--and the memory hurt--that the last time he had
reached from the saddle had been to snatch _her_ handkerchief from the
ground, and he had been just the fraction of a second too late.
"My luck's runnin' mighty low," he muttered softly, and threw back his
shoulders, as his teeth gritted hard, "but I'm still in the game, an'
maybe this will change it." Very carefully, very tenderly, he placed
the blossom beneath the band inside his hat.
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