so, pounding along, mile after mile through the vast green land
where the bread of a nation grew, arriving at midnight among squeals and
moans, trembling bleat of sheep, pitiful, hungry crying of calves, high,
lonesome tenor notes of bewildered steers. That was the end of the
journey for him, the beginning of the great adventure for the creatures
under his care.

By eleven o'clock next morning, Lambert had a check for the cattle in
his pocket, and bay rum on his face where the dust, the cinders and the
beard had been but a little while before. He bought a little hand
satchel in a second-hand store to carry the money home in, cashed his
check and took a turn looking around, his big gun on his leg, his
high-heeled boots making him toddle along in a rather ridiculous gait
for an able-bodied cow-puncher from the Bad Lands.

There was a train for home at six, that same flier he once had raced.
There would be time enough for a man to look into the progress of the
fine arts as represented in the pawn-shop windows of the stockyards
neighborhood, before striking a line for the Union Station to nail down
a seat in the flier. It was while engaged in this elevating pursuit that
Lambert glimpsed for an instant in the passing stream of people a figure
that made him start with the prickling alertness of recognition.

He had caught but a flash of the hurrying figure but, with that eye for
singling a certain object from a moving mass that experience with cattle
sharpens, he recognized the carriage of the head, the set of the
shoulders. He hurried after, overtaking the man as he was entering a
hotel.

"Mr. Kerr, I've got a warrant for you," he said, detaining the fugitive
with a hand laid on his shoulder.

Kerr was taken so unexpectedly that he had no chance to sling a gun,
even if he carried one. He was completely changed in appearance, even to
the sacrifice of his prized beard, so long his aristocratic distinction
in the Bad Lands. He was dressed in the city fashion, with a little
straw hat in place of the eighteen-inch sombrero that he had worn for
years. Confident of this disguise, he affected astonished indignation.

"I guess you've made a mistake in your man," said he.

Lambert told him with polite firmness that there was no mistake.

"I'd know your voice in the dark--I've got reason to remember it," he
said.

He got the warrant out with one hand, keeping the other comfortably near
his gun, the little hand bag with its ri