"Of course. But I was wondering what he did." Lorry hesitated. "Didn't you ever hear that song about Waring of Sonora-Town? It's a whizzer. Well, that's him. All the cowboys sing that song." "I have never heard it." "Well, mebby dad wouldn't like that I sing it. He's kind of funny that way. Now you wouldn't think he was the fastest gunman in the Southwest, would you?" "Gunman! Your father?" Lorry straightened up from polishing the car. "I clean forgot what I was sayin'. I guess my foot slipped that time." "I am sorry I asked," said Mrs. Weston. "It really doesn't matter." "Oh, it ain't your fault. But I wasn't aimin' to tell. Dad he married my mother, and they went to live in Sonora, down in Mexico. Some of the minin' outfits down there hired him regular to--to protect their interests. I guess ma couldn't stand that kind of life, for after a few years she brought me up here. I was just a kid then. Ma she built up a good trade at this hotel. Folks call her Mrs. Adams. Her name was Adams afore she got married. We been here ten years. Dad didn't know where she was till last week he showed up here. I reckon she thought he got killed long ago. Folks would talk about it if they knowed he was her husband, so I guess she asked dad to say nothin' about that. He said he came up to see me. I guess he don't aim to stay long." "I think I understand," said Mrs. Weston. "Well, it ain't none of my business, long as ma is all right. Say, she shines like a new hack, eh?" "You have cleaned the car beautifully." "Oh, I dunno. Now, if it was a hoss--And say, I guess you'll be startin' to-morrow. That axle will be all right in about an hour." Just then Anita came to call them to luncheon. She had heard them talking at the rear of the hotel shortly after Sheriff Hardy had inquired for Lorry. Several townsfolk came in, ate, and departed on their several ways. After luncheon Mrs. Weston went to her room. She thought she would lie down and sleep for an hour or so, but the noon heat made the room rather close. She picked up a book and came down, where she found it comfortably cool on the veranda. The town was quiet. A hand-car with its section crew of Mexicans clicked past, and hummed on down the glittering rails. A stray burro meandered about, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the street, where he stood, stoically enduring the sun, a veritable long-eared statue of dejection. Mrs. Weston turned a page, but the printed word was flat and insignificant.