For years there had been no women in his world but the abandoned
creatures who sought shelter in the resorts of Beer City in No-Man's
Land--these, and the squaws of the reservations, and occasionally
a white terrified face among the wagon-trains. As a boy, before
running away from home in the Middle West, he had known a different
order of beings, and some instinct told him that this woman belonged
to the class of his childhood's association. There was imperative
need of his hurrying to the mountain, lest, at any moment, a roving
band of Indians discover the abandoned wagon; besides this, he was
very hungry since his rest, and the wagon was stocked with
provisions; nevertheless, to look on the face of the dead was his
absorbing desire.

But it was not easy for him to yield to his curiosity, despite his
life of crime. Something about the majestic repose of that form
seemed to add awe to the mystery of sex; and he crouched staring at
the cloth which no breath stirred save the breath of evening.

He believed, now, the story that Henry Gledware had reiterated in
accents of abject terror. Surely this was the "last wagon" in that
train which Red Kimball had attacked the morning before. Impossible
as it had seemed to the highwaymen, Gledware must have been warned
of the attack in time to turn about and lash his horses out of
danger of discovery. At this spot, Gledware had cut loose the
horses, mounted one with his stepdaughter, leaving the other to go
at will. This, then, was the mother of that child whose arm had
lain in warm confidence about his neck. On hands and knees, Willock
crept to the other mattress and lifted the margin of the large white
cloth.