past four days to set my suspicions against everything
and every official in it."

"Well, the drawing's to be held at Meander, you know," reminded William
Bentley, the toolmaker, "and Meander advertises itself as a moral
center. It seems that it was against this town from the very start--it
wanted the whole show to itself. Here's a circular that I got at Meander
headquarters today. It's got a great knock against Comanche in it."

"Yes, I saw it," said the doctor. "It sounds like one crook knocking
another. But it can't be any worse than this place, anyhow. I think I'll
take a ride over there in a day or so and size it up."

"Well, I surrender all pretensions to Claim Number One," laughed Mrs.
Reed, a straining of color in her cheeks.

June had not demanded fudge once in four days. That alone was enough to
raise the colors of courage in her mother's face, even if there hadn't
been a change in the young lady for the better in other directions. Four
days of Wyoming summer sun and wind had made as much difference in June
as four days of September blaze make in a peach on the tip of an exposed
bough. She was browning and reddening beautifully, and her hair was
taking on a trick of wildness, blowing friskily about her eyes.

It was plain that June had in her all the making of a hummer. That's
what Horace Bentley, the lawyer, owned to himself as he told her
mother in confidence that a month of that high country, with its
fresh-from-creation air, would be better for the girl's natural
endowments than all the beauty-parlors of Boston or the specialists
of Vienna. Horace felt of his early bald spot, half believing that
some stubby hairs were starting there already.

There was still a glow of twilight in the sky when lights appeared in
the windowless windows of the church, and the whine of tuning fiddles
came out of its open door. Mrs. Reed stiffened as she located the sound,
and an expression of outraged sanctity appeared in her face. She turned
to Dr. Slavens.

"Are they going to--to--_dance_ in that building?" she demanded.

"I'm afraid they are," said he. "It's used for dancing, they tell me."

"But it's a church--it's consecrated!" she gasped.

"I reckon it's worn off by this time," he comforted. "It was a church a
long, long time ago--for Comanche. The saloon man across from it told me
its history. He considered locating in it, he said, but they wanted too
much rent.

"When Comanche was only a railroad camp--a g