d by moonlight, stretching out beyond one's imagination, I wondered
that I had ever feared space and quiet.

But out of the silence would come the rhythmic thud of a horse's feet
and a loud hail. The Ammons settlement was a day-and-night institution.
With a loud knock on the door would come the identification, "It's
Alberts!" Or Kimball, or Pinchot--real estate agents. "I've got a man
here who wants to pay a deposit on N.W. quarter of section 18. We're on
our way to the Land Office. Want to be there when it opens."

One of us would light the print-shop lamp, make out the papers, take the
money, and stumble back to bed. A sign, "CLOSED," or "NEVER CLOSED," would
have been equally ineffective in stopping the night movement on the Strip.
Homesteaders living miles away came after the long day's work to put in
their proving-up notices. They must be in the paper the following day to
go through the five weeks' publication before the date set at the Land
Office. During those scorching weeks their days were taken up by hauling
water and caring for things at home.

With those urgent night calls we did not stick a gun out as had the
Presho banker. We were not greatly perturbed about the possibility of
anyone robbing us. A burglar who could find the money would accomplish
more than we could do half the time, so outlandish had the hiding places
become. Imbert insisted that we keep a loaded gun or two on the place,
but we knew nothing about handling guns and were more afraid of them
than of being molested.

Ada put up her folding cot at night in the lean-to kitchen, and one day
she brought a rawhide whip from home and laid it on the 2 x 4 scantling
that girded the walls--"the two-be-four" she called it. "You don't need
a gun," she said in her slow, calm voice. "Just give me a rawhide." With
that sure strong arm of hers and the keen whip, one would never enter
without shooting first.

There were a few nights when we woke to find Ada standing still as a
statue in her long white cotton nightgown, straw-colored braids hanging
down her back, rawhide in her right hand, only to find whoever had
prowled around had driven on, or that it was Tim Carter, the lawyer,
coming home from town intoxicated, talking and singing at the top of his
voice.

During that clock-round period the days were usually quiet and we worked
in shifts as much as our many duties permitted. "Come on, girls," Ma
would call, "this ice tea is goin' to be hot if you do