Calor was the usual desert type of town. Perhaps a little larger, due to the fact that it was a county seat, but the buildings were unpainted, scourged by wind and sand, until they blended nicely with the gray of the desert. Two huge water tanks, thrusting their ungainly bulk upward on their scaffolding, like huge, rotund giants, with spindling legs, supplied the town with water, which was always warm. The depot had once been painted a bright red, but time had dimmed its luster until it was a sickly pink, where any color yet remained. The team came up to the depot platform, guided in close to the high platform. The deputy helped the woman down, and unloaded the trunk. He tied both horses securely to the platform, because they were unused to trains, and then began twisting the trunk around to the front, the woman following him. The telegraph wires hummed in the hot wind, and there was a strong odor of pitch frying up from the planks of the platform. A man stood near the doorway to the waiting room; a tall, lean figure of a man, harsh of feature, his gray eyes deep set under beetling brows, and separated with a high-arched nose. His mouth was wide and thin lipped. In raiment he was practically the same as ninety-nine per cent of the desert men; well-worn sombrero, colorless shirt, stringy vest, overalls, from which the color had long since fled, tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots. Around his lean waist hung a belt and holstered gun, and on the lapel of his vest gleamed the insignia of office. Such was Duty Deming, sheriff of Calor. He shot one sharp glance at his deputy, who handled the trunk awkwardly as he rolled it out near the edge of the platform. The woman stopped short and studied the face of her husband. “You didn’t think I’d come, did you?” she asked. “If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be up here,” he said slowly. The deputy walked from the trunk to the waiting room. He had Mrs. Deming’s ticket, and was going to check the trunk. The sheriff’s eyes followed him. “You don’t need to blame Joe,” she said. His eyes shifted from the doorway and came back to her. “You’re not sorry?” she asked. “What for? I’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” “After thirty years, Jim?” “No. You said you’d go away. I’ve provided for yuh all these years, and----” “And sent my son to prison; drove my daughter away.” His jaw set grimly for a moment. “Well?” “I guess that’s all, Jim.” They were silent now. Came the soft humming of the rails, as the train came creeping through the desert. The telegraph instrument in the office clanked spasmodically. “They call you Duty,” she said bitterly. “And you’re proud of it. You think more of that than you do of your family. Your evidence ruined the happiness of your daughter; your evidence ruined my happiness.”