Finally the minister raised his eyes and looked down the street. It was almost empty, save for two men in high-heeled top boots and sombreros who sat in chairs tilted back against the post-office wall, meditating in mutual silence. The only sounds were the rattling of dishes over in his mother-in-law's restaurant across the street, and the sleepy cheeping of the little chickens in his own back yard, as they cuddled under their mother's wing. The Reverend Taylor was about to go to the coops and close them for the night, when he saw a man and a woman on horseback coming up the street. The woman was bending forward and swaying in her saddle. He stood still and watched. The red sunset blaze was in his face so that he could not see plainly until they were quite near. Then he knew that it was Cairness and--yes, beyond a doubt--Bill Lawton's runaway wife. They halted in front of him, and the woman swayed again, so much that he ran to her side. But she righted herself fiercely. Cairness was dismounted and was beside her, too, in an instant. He lifted her from the horse, pulled her down, more or less; she was much too ungainly to handle with any grace. "May I take her in?" he said, nodding toward the open door. "Surely," said the minister, "surely." There might have been men who would have remembered that Mrs. Lawton was a tough woman, even for a mining town, and who would in the names of their own wives have refused to let her cross the threshold of their homes. But he saw that she was ill, and he did not so much as hesitate. Cairness put his arm around the big angular shoulders and helped her into the sitting room. She dropped down upon the sofa, and sat there, her head hanging, but in sullenness, not humility. Mrs. Taylor came to the dining-room door and looked in. "Can I do anything?" she asked. "Come in," said her husband. He was pouring out a drink of whiskey. She came and stood watching, asking no questions, while the woman on the sofa gulped down the raw whiskey and gave back the glass. Cairness had gone out to hitch the horses. When he came in he spoke to Mrs. Lawton, as one possessed of authority. He told her to lie down if she wanted to. "With your leave, Mrs. Taylor?" he added. Mrs. Taylor was already beside her, fussing kindly and being met with scant courtesy. Cairness took the Reverend Taylor to the door. "You know that is Bill Lawton's wife?" he said. Taylor nodded. "The one who sloped with the Greaser?" The parson nodded again. "Do you object to taking her into your house for a short time?" The Reverend Taylor did not object. "And your wife?" "She will shrink, I guess, at first," he admitted. "Women who ain't seen much of life kind of think they ought to draw aside their skirts, and all that. They were taught copy-book morals about touching pitch, I reckon,"--he was wise concerning women now--"and it takes a good deal of hard experience to teach them that it ain't so. But she'll take my word for it."