"Well, I'm willin'," said Pete, who began to realize the power behind
the throne.

"Bless his heart!" Mrs. Bailey put her arm about his shoulders. Pete
was mightily embarrassed. No woman had ever caressed him, so far as he
could remember. The men would sure think him a softy, to allow all
this strange mothering; but he could not help himself. Evidently the
foreman's wife was a power in the land, for the men had taken her
berating silently and respectfully. But before they reached the house
Pete 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