THE FIGHTING SHEPHERDESS
"She followed off a fellow called Mormon Joe, and trailed in here in overalls behind the little band of ewes that gave them their start. He took up a homestead bad in the hills and they lived on about as near nothing as anybody could, and live at all — like a couple of white Indians sleeping in tents and eating out of a frying pan.
"A chap that was visiting me one summer brought her to a dance here at the Prouty House — did it on a bet that he hadn't sand enough. She came downstairs looking like a Christmas tree. Everybody gave her the frosty mitt and they had to leave."
Prentiss watched a smoke ring rise before he asked :
"Why did they do that?"
"So she wouldn't make the same mistake again."
Toomey laughed, and added:
"They took a 'fall' out of her every time they could after that. There was something about her that invited it," he added reflectively, "the way she held her head up, as if she defied them to do their worst, and," chuckling, " they did."
Prentiss thrust a forefinger inside his collar and gave it a tug as though it choked.
" This Mormon Joe — what became of him? "
The gleeful light went out of Toomey's face.
"He was killed in a shack down here."
"How?"
"A trap-gun."
"By whom?"
Toomey recrossed his long legs and sought a new position for his hands with the quick erratic movements of nervousness. He hesitated, then replied :
"They suspected her."
"Why?"
"She was the only one to benefit."
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