was only too glad to feel Mrs. Bailey's arm round his shoulders,
for the ground seemed unnecessarily uneven, and the trees had a strange
way of rocking back and forth, although there was no wind.

Mrs. Bailey insisted that he lie down, and she spread a blanket on her
own white bed. Pete did not want to lie down. But Mrs. Bailey
insisted, helping him to unbuckle his chaps and even to pull off his
boots. The bed felt soft and comfortable to his aching body. The room
was darkened. Mrs. Bailey tiptoed through the doorway. Pete gazed
drowsily at a flaming lithograph on the wall; a basket of fruit such as
was never known on land or sea, placed on a highly polished table such
as was never made by human hands. The colors of the chromo grew dimmer
and dimmer. Pete sighed and fell asleep.

Mrs. Bailey, like most folk in that locality, knew something of Pete's
earlier life. Rumor had it that Pete was a bad one--a tough kid--that
he had even killed two cowboys of the T-Bar-T. Mrs. Bailey had never
seen Pete until that morning. Yet she immediately formed her own
opinion of him, intuition guiding her aright. Young Pete was simply
unfortunate--not vicious. She could see that at a glance. And he was
a manly youngster with a quick, direct eye. He had come to the Concho
looking for work. The men had played their usual pranks, fortunately
with no serious consequences. But Bailey should have known better, and
she told him so that afternoon in the kitchen, while Pete slumbered
blissfully in the next room. "And he can help around the place, even
if it is slack times," she concluded.

That evening was one of the happiest evenings of Pete's life. He had
never known the tender solicitude of a woman. Mrs. Bailey treated him
as a sort of semi-invalid, waiting on him, silencing the men's
good-natured joshing with her sharp tongue, feeding him canned
peaches--a rare treat--and finally enthroning him in her own ample
rocking-chair, somewhat to Pete's embarrassment, and much to the
amusement of the men.

"He sure can ride it!" said a cowboy, indicating the rocking-chair.

"Bill Haskins, you need a shave!" said Mrs. Bailey.

The aforesaid Bill Haskins, unable to see any connection between his
remark and the condition of his beard, stared from one to another of
his blank-faced companions, grew red, stammered, and felt of his chin.

"I reckon I do," he said weakly, and rising he plodded to the
bunk-house.

"And if you want t