Their situation was somewhat beyond the seat of noisy business and raucous-throated pleasure. Mrs. Reed, while living in an unending state of shivers on account of the imagined perils which stalked the footsteps of June, was a bit assured by their surroundings.
In front of them was a vacant plot, in which inoffensive horses took their siesta in the sun, awaiting someone to come along and hire them for rides of inspection over the lands which were soon to be apportioned by lot. A trifle farther along stood a little church, its unglazed windows black and hollow, like gouged-out eyes. Mrs. Reed drew a vast amount of comfort from the church, and their proximity to it, knowing nothing of its history nor its present uses. Its presence there was proof to her that all Comanche was not a waste of iniquity.
Almost directly in front of their tent the road branched–one prong running to Meander, the county Seat, sixty miles away; the other to the Big Horn Valley. The scarred stagecoaches which had come down from the seventies were still in use on both routes, the two on the Meander line being reenforced by democrat wagons when there was an overflow of business,
Every morning the company assembled before the tent under the canvas spread to protect the cookstove, to watch Mrs. Reed and Sergeant Schaefer get breakfast, and to offer suggestions about the fire, and admire June at her toast-making–the one branch of domestic art, aside from fudge, which she had mastered. About that time the stage would pass, setting out on its dusty run to Meander, and everybody on it and in it would wave, everybody in the genial company before the tent would wave back, and all of the adventurers on both sides would feel quite primitive, in spite of the snuffling of the locomotive at the railway station, pushing around freight-cars.
The locomotive seemed to tell them that they should not be deceived, that all of this crude setting was a sham and a pretense, and that they had not yet outrun the conveniences of modern life.
Dr. Slavens appeared to be getting the upper hand of his melancholy, and to be drawing the comfort from his black pipe that it was designed to give. Next to the sergeant he was the handiest man in the camp, showing by his readiness to turn a full hand at anything, from paring potatoes to making a fire, that he had shifted for himself before that day. The ladies all admired him, as they always admire a man who has a little cloud of the mysterious about him. Mrs. Reed wondered, audibly, in the presence of June and Miss Horton, if he had deserted his wife.
The others were full of the excitement of their novel situation, and drunk on the blue skies which strained the sunlight of its mists and motes, pouring it down like a baptismal blessing. Even William Bentley, the toolmaker, romped and raced in the ankle-deep dust like a boy.
Sunrise always found the floating population of Comanche setting breakfastward in a clamoring tide. After that, when the land-office opened at nine o’clock, the stream turned toward it, the crowd grew around it, fringing off into the great, empty flat in which it stood–a stretch of naked land so white and gleaming under the sun that it made the eyes ache. There the land-seekers and thrill-hunters kicked up the dust, and got their thousands of clerkly necks burned red, and their thousands of indoor noses peeled, while they discussed the chances of disposing of the high numbers for enough to pay them for the expense of the trip.
After noonday the throngs sought the hydrant and the shade of the saloons, and, where finances would permit, the solace of bottled beer. And all day over Comanche the heel-ground dust rose as from the trampling of ten thousand hoofs, and through its tent-set streets the numbers of a strong army passed and repassed, gazing upon its gaudy lures. They had come there to gamble in a big, free lottery, where the only stake was the time spent and the money expended in coming, in which the grand prize was Claim Number One.
“It looks to me,” said Horace Bentley, the bald lawyer, “like a great many people are going to be bitterly disappointed in this game. More than forty thousand have registered already, and there are three days more before the books close. The government circulars describing the land say there are eight thousand homesteads, all told–six hundred of them suitable for agriculture once they are brought under irrigation, the rest grazing and mineral land. It seems to me that, as far as our expectations go in that direction, we might as well pack up and go home.”
Four days in camp had made old-timers out of the company gathered under the awning before their tent, waiting for the meal which Mrs. Reed and her assistants were even then spreading on the trestle-built table. There had been a shower that afternoon, one of those gusty, blustery, desert demonstrations which had wrenched the tents and torn hundreds of them from their slack anchoring in the loose soil.
After the storm, with its splash of big drops and charge of blinding dust, a cool serenity had fallen over the land. The milk had been washed out of the distances, and in the far southwest snowy peaks gleamed solemnly in the setting sun, the barrier on the uttermost edge of the desert leagues which so many thousand men and women were hungry to share.
“Yes, it’s a desperate gamble for all of us,” Dr. Slavens admitted. “I don’t see any more show of anybody in this party drawing a low number than I see
“Still,” argued Milo Strong, the Iowa teacher, “we’ve got just the same chance as anybody out of the forty thousand. I don’t suppose there’s any question that the drawing will be fair?”
“It will be under the personal management of the United States Land Commissioner at Meander,” said Horace Bentley.
“How do they work it?” asked June, perking up her head in quick interest from her task of hammering together the seams of a leaky new tin cup. She had it over a projecting end of one of the trestles, and was going about it like a mechanic.
“Where did you learn that trick?” inquired the toolmaker, a look in his eyes which was pretty close kin to amazement.
“Huh!” said June, hammering away. “What do you suppose a college education’s good for, anyway? But how do they manage the drawing?” she pressed.
“Did they teach you the game of policy at Molly Bawn?” the lawyer asked.
“The idea!” sniffed Mrs. Reed.
Miss Horton smiled into her handkerchief, and June shook her head in vigorous denial.
“I don’t even know what it is,” said she. “Is it some kind of insurance?”
“It beats insurance for the man that runs the game,” said Strong, reminiscently.
“All of the names of those who register will be taken to Meander when the registration closes,” explained Horace. “There are half a dozen clerks in the little office here transcribing the names on to small cards, with the addresses and all necessary information for notifying a winner. On the day of the drawing the forty thousand-odd names will be put into a big hollow drum, fitted with a crank. They’ll whirl it, and then a blindfolded child will put his hand into the drum and draw out Number One. Another child will then draw Number Two, and so on until eight thousand names have come out of the wheel. As there are only eight thousand parcels of land, that will end the lottery. What do you think of your chance by now, Miss Horton?”
“Why, it looks fair enough, the way they do it,” she answered, questioning Dr. Slavens with her eyes.
He shook his head.
“You can’t tell,” he responded. “I’ve seen enough crookedness in this tent-town in the past four days to set my suspicions against everything and every official in it.”
“Well, the drawing’s to be held at Meander, you know,” reminded William Bentley, the toolmaker, “and Meander advertises itself as a moral center. It seems that it was against this town from the very start–it wanted the whole show to itself. Here’s a circular that I got at Meander headquarters today. It’s got a great knock against Comanche in it.”
“Yes, I saw it,” said the doctor. “It sounds like one crook knocking another. But it can’t be any worse than this place, anyhow. I think I’ll take a ride over there in a day or so and size it up.”
“Well, I surrender all pretensions to Claim Number One,” laughed Mrs. Reed, a straining of color in her cheeks.
June had not demanded fudge once in four days. That alone was enough to raise the colors of courage in her mother’s face, even if there hadn’t been a change in the young lady for the better in other directions. Four days of Wyoming summer sun and wind had made as much difference in June as four days of September blaze make in a peach on the tip of an exposed bough. She was browning and reddening beautifully, and her hair was taking on a trick of wildness, blowing friskily about her eyes.
It was plain that June had in her all the making of a hummer. That’s what Horace Bentley, the lawyer, owned to himself as he told her mother in confidence that a month of that high country, with its fresh-from-creation air, would be better for the girl’s natural endowments than all the beauty-parlors of Boston or the specialists of Vienna. Horace felt of his early bald spot, half believing that some stubby hairs were starting there already.
There was still a glow of twilight in the sky when lights appeared in the windowless windows of the church, and the whine of tuning fiddles came out of its
“Are they going to–to–dance in that building?” she demanded.
“I’m afraid they are,” said he. “It’s used for dancing, they tell me.”
“But it’s a church–it’s consecrated!” she gasped.
“I reckon it’s worn off by this time,” he comforted. “It was a church a long, long time ago–for Comanche. The saloon man across from it told me its history. He considered locating in it, he said, but they wanted too much rent.
“When Comanche was only a railroad camp–a good while before the rails were laid this far–a traveling preacher struck the town and warmed them up with an old-style revival. They chipped in the money to build the church in the fervor of the passing glow, and the preacher had it put up–just as you see it, belfry and all.
“They even bought a bell for it, and it used to ding for the sheepmen and railroaders, as long as their religion lasted. When it ran out, the preacher moved on to fresh fields, and a rancher bought the bell to call his hands to dinner. The respectable element of Comanche–that is, the storekeepers, their wives, daughters and sons, and the clerks, and others–hold a dance there now twice a week. That is their only relaxation.”
“It’s a shame!” declared Mrs. Reed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the doctor easily.
“I’m so disappointed in it!” said she.
“Because it represents itself as a church when it’s something else?” inquired the doctor softly. “Well, I shouldn’t be, if I were you. It has really nothing to be ashamed of, for the respectable are mightily in the minority in Comanche, I can tell you, madam–that is, among the regular inhabitants.”
“Let’s go over and look on,” suggested William Bentley. “It may make some of you gloomy people forget your future troubles for a while.”
The party soon found that looking on exposed them to the contagion of sociability. They were such wholesome-looking people at the gathering, and their efforts to make the visitors who stood outside the door feel at home and comfortable were so genuine, that reserve dissolved most unaccountably.
It was not long before June’s mother, her prejudices against such frivolous and worldly use of a church blown away, was pigeoning around with William Bentley. Likewise Mrs. Mann, the miller out of sight and out of mind, stepped lightly with Horace, the lawyer, the sober black bag doubled up and stored in the pocket of his coat, its handles dangling like bridle-reins.
June alone was left unpaired, in company with the doctor and Miss Horton, who asserted that they did not dance. Her heels were itching to be clicking off that jolly two-step which the Italian fiddlers and harpist played with such enticing swing. The school-teacher
But June hadn’t long to bear the itch of impatience, for ladies were not plentiful at the dance. Before anybody had time to be astonished by his boldness, a young man was bowing before June, presenting his crooked elbow, inviting her to the dance with all the polish that could possibly lie on any one man. On account of an unusually enthusiastic clatter of heels at that moment, Dr. Slavens and Miss Horton, a few paces distant, could not hear what he said, but they caught their breaths a little sharply when June took the proffered arm.
“Surest thing you know,” they heard her eager little voice say as she passed them with a happy, triumphant look behind.
Dr. Slavens looked at Miss Horton; Miss Horton looked at the doctor. Both laughed.
“Well, I like that!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” he agreed, but apparently from quite a different angle, “so do I. It’s natural and unaffected; it’s coming down to first principles. Well, I don’t see that there’s anything left for you and me to do but use up some of this moonlight in a walk. I’d like to see the river in this light. Come?”
“Oh, that would be unconventional!” she protested.
But it was not a strong protest; more of a question perhaps, which left it all to him.
“This is an unconventional country,” he said. “Look at it, as white as snow under this summer moon.”
“It’s lovely by night,” she agreed; “but this Comanche is like a sore spot on a clean skin. It’s a blight and a disfigurement, and these noises they make after dark sound like some savage revel.”
“We’ll put them behind us for two hours or so,” he decided with finality which allowed no further argument.
As they set off toward the river he did not offer her the support of his arm, for she strode beside him with her hands swinging free, long step to his long step, not a creature of whims and shams, he knew, quite able to bear her own weight on a rougher road than that.
“Still it is unconventional,” she reflected, looking away over the flat land.
“That’s the beauty of it,” said he. “Let’s be just natural.”
They passed beyond the straggling limits of Comanche, where the town blended out into the plain in the tattered tents and road-battered wagons of the most earnest of all the home-seekers, those who had staked everything on the hope of drawing a piece of land which would serve at last as a refuge against the world’s buffeting.
Under their feet was the low-clinging sheep-sage and the running herbs of yellow and gray which seemed so juiceless and dry to the eye, but which were the provender of thousands of sheep and cattle that never
Behind the couple the noises of Comanche died to murmurs. Ahead of them rose the dark line of cottonwoods which stood upon the river-shore.
“I want to take another look at the Buckhorn CaÑon,” said the doctor, stalking on in his sturdy, farm-bred gait.
“It makes a fearful roar,” she remarked as they approached the place where the swift river, compressed into the flumelike passage which it had whetted out of the granite, tossed its white mane in the moonlight before plunging into the dark door of the caÑon.
“I’ve been hearing yarns and traditions about that caÑon ever since I came here,” he told her. “They say it’s a thousand feet deep in places.”
“June and I came over here this morning,” said Agnes, “along with Sergeant Schaefer. He said he didn’t believe that June could hike that far. I sat here on the rocks a long time watching it. I never saw so much mystery and terror in water before.”
She drew a little nearer to him as she spoke, and he put his hand on her shoulder in an unconscious movement of restraint as she leaned over among the black boulders and peered into the hissing current.
“Do you suppose anybody ever went in there?” she asked.
“They say the Indians know some way of getting through,” he replied, “but no white man ever went into the caÑon and came out alive. The last one to try it was a representative of a Denver paper who came out here at the beginning of the registration. He went in there with his camera on his back after a story.”
“Poor fellow! Did he get through–at all?”
“They haven’t reported him on the other side yet. His paper offers a reward for the solution of the mystery of his disappearance, which is no mystery at all. He didn’t have the right kind of footgear, and he slipped. That’s all there is to it.”
He felt her shudder under his hand, which remained unaccountably on her warm shoulder after the need of restraint had passed.
“It’s a forbidding place by day,” said she, “and worse at night. Just think of the despair of that poor man when he felt himself falling down there in the dark!”
“Moccasins are the things for a job like that,” he declared. “I’ve studied it all out; I believe I could go through there without a scratch.”
“What in the world would anybody want to do it for? What is there to be gained by it, to the good of anybody?” she wondered.
“Well, there’s the reward of five hundred dollars offered by the newspaper in Denver,” he answered.
“It’s a pitiful stake against such odds!” she scorned.
“And all the old settlers say there’s gold in there–rich pockets of it, washed out of the ledges in the sides of the walls and held by the rocks in the river-bed and along the margins. A nugget is picked up now and then on the other side, so there seems to be ground for the belief that fortune waits for the man who makes a careful exploration.”
“He couldn’t carry enough of it out to make it worth while,” she objected.
“But he could go back,” Dr. Slavens reminded her. “It would be easy the second time. Or he might put in effect the scheme a sheep-herder had once.”
“What was that?” she asked, turning her face up to him from her place on the low stone where she sat, the moonlight glinting in her eyes.
He laughed a little.
“Not that it was much of a joke the way it turned out,” he explained. “He went in there to hunt for the gold, leaving two of his companions to labor along the brink of the caÑon above and listen for his signal shout in case he came across any gold worth while. Then they were to let a rope down to him and he’d send up the treasure. It was a great scheme, but they never got a chance to try it. If he ever gave any signal they never heard it, for down there a man’s voice strained to its shrillest would be no more than a whisper against a tornado. You can believe that, can’t you, from the way it roars and tears around out here?”
“All the gold that remains unmined wouldn’t tempt me a hundred feet down that black throat,” she shuddered. “But what became of the adventurer with the scheme?”
“He came through in time–they caught him at the outlet over there in the mountains. The one pocket that remained in his shredded clothing was full of gold nuggets, they say. So he must have found it, even if he couldn’t make them hear.”
“What a dismal end for any man!”
“A man could beat it, though,” said he, leaning forward in thoughtful attitude. “He’d need a strong light, and moccasins, so he could cling to the rocks. I believe it could be done, and I’ve thought a good deal about exploring it myself for a day or two past. If I don’t draw a low number I think I’ll tackle it.”
“Don’t you attempt it!” she cried, clutching his arm and turning her white face to him affrightedly. “Don’t you ever dare try it!”
He laughed uneasily, his eyes on the black gash into which the foaming river darted.
“Oh, I don’t know; I’ve heard of men doing riskier things than that for money,” he returned.
Agnes Horton’s excitement and concern seemed to pass with his words. She propped her chin in her palms and sat pensively, looking at the broken waters which reared around the barrier of scattered stones in its channel.
“Yes, men sometimes take big risks for money–even
It was like the wind blowing aside a tent-flap as he passed, giving him a glimpse of its intimate interior. That little lifting of her reserve was a glance into the sanctuary of her heart. The melancholy of her eyes was born out of somebody’s escapade with money; he was ready to risk his last guess on that.
“Besides, there may be nothing to that story of nuggets. That may be just one of these western yarns,” she added.
“Well, in any case, there’s the five hundred the Denver paper offers, besides what I could make by syndicating the account of my adventure among the Sunday papers. I used to do quite a lot of that when I was in college.”
“But you don’t need money badly enough to go into that place after it. Nobody ever needed it that badly,” she declared.
“Don’t I?” he answered, a little biting of bitter sarcasm in his tone. “Well, you don’t know, my lady, how easy that money looks to me compared to my ordinary channels of getting it.”
“It can’t be so very hard in your profession,” she doubted, as if a bit offended by his attitude of martyrdom before an unappreciative world. “I don’t believe you have half as hard a time of it as some who have too much money.”
“The hardship of having too much money is one
“Here you see me tonight, a piece of driftwood at thirty-five, and all for the want of money enough to buy an automobile and take the darned-fool world by storm on its vain side! You can’t scratch it with a diamond on its reasoning side–I’ve scratched away on it until my nails are gone.
“I’ve failed, I tell you, I’ve botched it all up! And just for want of money enough to buy an automobile! Brains never took a doctor anywhere–nothing but money and bluff!”
“I wonder,” she speculated, “what will become of you out here in this raw place, where the need of a doctor seems to be the farthest thing in the world, and you with your nerve all gone?”
It would have reassured her if she could have seen the fine flush which this charge raised in his face. But she didn’t even look toward him, and couldn’t have
“But I haven’t lost my nerve!” he denied warmly.
“Oh, yes, you have,” she contradicted, “or you wouldn’t admit that you’re a failure, and you wouldn’t talk about money that way. Money doesn’t cut much ice as long as you’ve got nerve.”
“That’s all right from your view,” said he pettishly. “But you’ve had easy going of it, out of college into a nice home, with a lot of those pink-faced chaps to ride you around in their automobiles, and opera and plays and horse-shows and all that stuff.”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, a soft sadness in her voice. “But wait until you’ve seen somebody drunk with the passion of too much money and crazy with the hunger for more; wait until you’ve seen a man’s soul grow black from hugging it to his heart, and his conscience atrophy and his manhood wither. And then when it rises up and crushes him, and all that are his with it––”
He looked at her curiously, waiting for her to round it out with a personal citation. But she said no more.
“That’s why you’re here, hoping like the rest of us to draw Number One?”
“Any number up to six hundred will do for me,” she laughed, sitting erect once more and seeming to shake her bitter mood off as she spoke.
“And what will you do with it? Sell out as soon as the law allows?”
“I’ll live on it,” dreamily, as if giving words to an old vision which she had warmed in her heart. “I’ll stay there and work through the hope of summer and the bleakness of winter, and make a home. I’ll smooth the wild land and plant trees and green meadows, and roses by the door, and we’ll stay there and it will be–home!”
“Yes,” he nodded, understanding the feeling better than she knew. “You and mother; you want it just that way.”
“How did you know it was mother?” she asked, turning to him with a quick, appreciative little start.
“You’re the kind of a woman who has a mother,” he answered. “Mothers leave their stamp on women like you.”
“Thank you,” said she.
“I’ve often wanted to run away from it that way, too,” he owned, “for failure made a coward of me more than once in those hard years. There’s a prospect of independence and peace in the picture you make with those few swift strokes. But I don’t see any–you haven’t put any–any–man in it. Isn’t there one somewhere?”
“No,” simply and frankly; “there isn’t any man anywhere. He doesn’t belong in the picture, so why should I draw him in?”
Dr. Slavens sighed.
“Yes; I’ve wanted to run away from it more than once.”
“That’s because you’ve lost your nerve,” she charged. “You shouldn’t want to run away from it–a big, broad man like you–and you must not run away. You must stay and fight–and fight–and fight! Why, you talk as if you were seventy instead of a youth of thirty-five!”
“Don’t rub it in so hard on that failure and nerve business,” he begged, ashamed of his hasty confession.
“Well, you mustn’t talk of running away then. There are no ghosts after you, are there?”
The moonlight was sifting through the loose strands of her gleaming hair as she sat there bareheaded at his side, and the strength of his life reached out to her, and the deep yearning of his lonely soul. He knew that he wanted that woman out of all the world full of women whom he had seen and known–and passed. He knew that he wanted her with such strong need that from that day none other could come across the mirror of his heart and dim her image out of it.
Simply money would not win a woman like her; no slope-headed son of a ham factory could come along and carry her off without any recommendation but his cash. She had lived through that kind of lure, and she was there on his own level because she wanted to work out her clean life in her own clean way. The thought warmed him. Here was a girl, he reflected, with a piece of steel in her backbone; a girl that would take the world’s lashings like a white elm in a storm,
He had not thought of it before–perhaps he had been too melancholy and bitter over his failure to take by storm the community where he had tried to make his start–but he believed that he realized that moment what he had needed all along. If, amid the contempt and indifference of the successful, he’d had some incentive besides his own ambition to struggle for all this time, some splendid, strong-handed woman to stand up in his gloom like the Goddess of Liberty offering an ultimate reward to the poor devils who have won their way to her feet across the bitter seas from hopeless lands, he might have stuck to it back there and won in the end.
“That’s what I’ve needed,” said he aloud, rising abruptly.
She looked up at him quickly.
“I’ve needed somebody’s sympathy, somebody’s sarcasm, somebody’s soft hand–which could be correctional on occasion–and somebody’s heart-interest all along,” he declared, standing before her dramatically and flinging out his hands in the strong feeling of his declaration. “I’ve been lonely; I’ve been morose. I’ve needed a woman like you!”
Without sign of perturbation or offense, Agnes rose and laid her hand gently upon his arm.
“I think, Dr. Slavens,” she suggested, “we’d better be going back to camp.”
They walked the mile back to camp with few words between them. The blatant noises of Comanche grew as they drew nearer.
The dance was still in progress; the others had not returned to camp.
“Do you care to sit out here and wait for them?” he asked as they stopped before the tent.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she answered. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll stand sentry,” he offered.
She thanked him, and started to go in. At the door she paused, went back to him, and placed her hand in her soothing, placid way upon his arm again.
“You’ll fight out the good fight here,” said she, “for this is a country that’s got breathing-room in it.”
She looked up into his face a bit wistfully, he thought, as if there were more in her heart than she had spoken. “You’ll win here–I know you’ll win.”
He reached out to put his arm about her, drawn by the same warm attraction that had pulled the words from him at the riverside. The action was that of a man reaching out to lean his weary weight upon some familiar object, and there was something of old habit in it, as if he had been doing it always.
But she did not stay. He folded only moonlight, in which there is little substance for a strong man, even in Wyoming. Dr. Slavens sighed as the tent-flap dropped behind her.
“Yes; that’s what I’ve needed all the time,” said he.
He sat outside with his pipe, which never had seemed so sweet. But, for all of its solace, he was disturbed by the thought that perhaps he had made a blunder which had placed him in a false light with Miss Horton–only he thought of her as Agnes, just as if he had the right. For there were only occasions on which Dr. Slavens admitted himself to be a fizzle in the big fireworks of the world. That was a charge which he sometimes laid to himself in mortification of spirit, or as a flagellant to spur him along the hard road. He had not meant to let it slip him aloud over there by the river, because he didn’t believe it at all–at least not in that high-hoping hour.
So he sat there in the moonlight before the tent, the noises of the town swelling louder and louder as the night grew older, his big frame doubled into the stingy lap of a canvas chair, his knees almost as high as his chin. But it was comfortable, and his tobacco was as pleasant to his senses as the distillation of youthful dreams.
He had not attained the automobile stage of prosperity and arrogance, certainly. But that was somewhere ahead; he should come to it in time. Out of the smoke of his pipe that dreamy night he could see it. Perhaps he might be a little gray at the temples when he came to it, and a little lined at the mouth, but there would be more need of it then than now, because his legs would tire more easily.
But Agnes had taken that foolishly blurted statement for truth. So it was his job henceforward to prove to Agnes that he was not bankrupt in courage. And he meant to do it he vowed, even if he had to get a tent and hang out his shingle in Comanche. That would take nerve unquestionably, for there were five doctors in the place already, none of them making enough to buy stamps to write back home for money.
Already, he said, he was out of the rut of his despondency; already the rust was knocked off his back, and the eagerness to crowd up to the starting-line was on him as fresh again as on the day when he had walked away from all competitors in the examination for a license before the state board.
At midnight the others came back from the dance and broke the trend of his smoke-born dreams. Midnight was the hour when respectable Comanche put out its lights and went to bed. Not to sleep in every case, perhaps, for the din was at crescendo pitch by then; but, at any event, to deprive the iniquitous of the moral support of looking on their debaucheries and sins.
Dr. Slavens was in no mood for his sagging canvas cot, for his new enthusiasm was bounding through him as if he had been given an intravenous injection of nitroglycerin. There was Wyoming before him, all white and virginal and fresh, a big place for a big deed. Certainly, said Dr. Slavens. Just as if made to order for his needs.
So he would look around a bit before turning in, with his high-stepping humor over him, and that spot on his arm, where her hand had lain, still aglow with her mysterious fire.
