have something to say.

The stage had just left when they reached Seven Mile, and Public Opinion
was seated on the porch as per custom. It regarded Keller with a stony,
expressionless hostility. Yeager with frank disapprobation.

Just before swinging from the saddle, Jim turned to the nester. "I'm
giving you an hour, seh. After that, I'm going to speak my little piece
to the boys."

"Thank you. An hour will be plenty," Keller answered, and passed into
the store, apparently oblivious of the silent observation focused upon
him.

Phyllis, busy unwrapping a package of papers, glanced up to see his
curly head in the stamp window.

"Anything for L. Keller?" he wanted to know, after he had unburdened
himself of a friendly "Mornin', Miss Sanderson."

Her impulse was to ask him how his wound was, but she repressed it
sternly. She took the letters from the K pigeonhole and found two for
him.

"Thank you, I'm feeling fine," he laughed, gathering up his mail.

"I didn't ask you how you were feeling," she answered, turning coldly to
her newspapers.

"I thought mebbe you'd want to know about my punctured tire."