A half-inch of cigar burned to ashes between Prentiss's finger-tips before he spoke. "So--the Sheep Queen is ostracized?" "Well--rather!" with unctuous emphasis. "My wife tried to take her up--but she couldn't make it stick. Found it would hurt us in our business, socially, and all that." Prentiss raised his cigar to his lips and looked at Toomey through slightly narrowed lids which might or might not be due to smoke as he asked: "Just what was her offense?" Toomey laughed. "It would be hard to say as to that. She came here under a cloud, and has been under one ever since. She has no antecedents, no blood, and even in a town like Prouty such things count. Her mother was Jezebel of the Sand Coulee, a notorious roadhouse in the southern part of the state; her father was God-knows-who--some freighter or sheepherder, most like." "Interesting--quite. Go on." Toomey did not note the constraint in Prentiss's voice and proceeded with gusto: "She followed off a fellow called Mormon Joe, and trailed in here in overalls behind the little band of ewes that gave them their start. He took up a homestead back in the hills and they lived on about as near nothing as anybody could, and live at all--like a couple of white Indians sleeping in tents and eating out of a frying pan. "A chap that was visiting me one summer brought her to a dance here at the Prouty House--did it on a bet that he hadn't sand enough. She came downstairs looking like a Christmas tree. Everybody gave her the frosty mitt and they had to leave." Prentiss watched a smoke ring rise before he asked: "Why did they do that?" "So she wouldn't make the same mistake again." Toomey laughed, and added: "They took a 'fall' out of her every time they could after that. There was something about her that invited it," he added reflectively, "the way she held her head up, as if she defied them to do their worst, and," chuckling, "they did." Prentiss thrust a forefinger inside his collar and gave it a tug as though it choked. "This Mormon Joe--what became of him?" The gleeful light went out of Toomey's face. "He was killed in a shack down here." "How?" "A trap-gun." "By whom?" Toomey recrossed his long legs and sought a new position for his hands with the quick erratic movements of nervousness. He hesitated, then replied: "They suspected her." "Why?" "She was the only one to benefit." "There was no proof?" "No." "What do you think?" Toomey deliberated a moment: "I believe her innocent, myself," he finally replied. "So she grew up out there in the hills without any friends or social life," Prentiss commented, musingly. "There was always a camptender and a sheepherder or two about," Toomey answered with slurring significance. Prentiss brushed the ashes from his cigar. "And Prouty had no sympathy with her in her loneliness, but considered her a legitimate target--somebody that everybody 'took a fall out of,' you say?"