the hills of slumber and wakefulness. For the moment she forgot the name
of the town itself. She knew that she could recall it if she tried. A
dog lay asleep beneath the station platform opposite, one relaxed paw
over his nose. Some one was calling to some one in the kitchen. A figure
passed in the street; a young man who smiled and nodded. It was the boy,
Lorry. He had been working on the car that morning. She had watched him
work, rather enjoying his energy. A healthy young animal as
unsophisticated as a kitten, and really innately kind and innocent of
intent to flatter. He was not at all like the bright young savage who
had roped and almost choked to death that awful man.

It was impossible to judge a person at first sight and especially under
unusual circumstances. And he seemed not at all chagrined that he had
not gone with the others to the hills. Alice had enjoyed reading about
Westerners--rough, boisterous beings intolerable to Mrs. Weston even in
print. And Mrs. Weston thought that proper environment and association
might bring out their better qualities, even as the boy, Lorry, seemed
to have improved--well, since yesterday morning. Perhaps he was on his
good behavior because they were there.

It seemed past comprehension that anything startling could happen in
that drowsy atmosphere.

The young cowboy was coming back down the street, some part of the car
over his shoulder. Mrs. Weston anticipated his nod, and nodded lazily as
he passed. She could hear him tinkering at the car.

A few blocks up the street, Buck Hardy was seated in his office talking
with the undersheriff. The undersheriff twisted the end of his black
mustache and looked wise.