“I got nothin’ else to do.  The sun is gettin’ round to the front.  If you would like to sit in the car and watch, I would look her over; there, in the shade.”

“I’ll get a hat,” said Mrs. Weston, rising.

“Your hair is right pretty without a hat.  And besides you would be in the shade of the top.”

It had been some time since any one had complimented Mrs. Weston about her hair, and especially a man young enough to be her son.  What was the cowboy going to say next?

Mrs. Weston stepped into the car, which was parked on the south side of the building.  Lorry, whistling blithely, searched until he found a wrench in one of the forward-door pockets.  He disappeared beneath the car.  Mrs. Weston could hear him tinkering at something.  She leaned back, breathing deep of the clean, thin air.  She could not recall having felt so thoroughly content and keenly alive at the same time.  She had no desire to say or do anything.

Presently Lorry appeared, his face grimy and his hands streaked with oil.  “Nothin’ busted,” he reported cheerfully.  “We got a car over to the ranch.  She’s been busted a-plenty.  I fixed her up more times than I can remember.  Cars is like horses ma’am; no two just alike, but kind of generally the same.  The steering-knuckle ain’t broke.  It’s the left axle that’s sprung.  That won’t take long to straighten.”

Mrs. Weston smiled.  Lorry thought she was actually pretty.  She saw this in his eyes, and flushed slightly.

“And I’ll just block her up and take off the wheel, and I reckon the blacksmith can straighten that axle easy.”

“It’s very nice of you.  But I am wondering why you didn’t go on the picnic—­with the others.”

“Well, who’d ‘a’ kept you company, ma’am?  Anita, she’s busy.  Anyhow, I seen plenty of scenery.  I’d rather be here.”

“Talking to a woman old enough to be your mother?”

“Huh!  I never thought of you like that.  I’m only eighteen.  Anyhow, what difference does it make how old a lady is, if she is pretty?”

Mrs. Weston’s eyes twinkled.  “Do you ever pay compliments to yourself when you are combing your hair or tying your scarf?”

“Me!  Why, not so anybody could hear ’em.  Now, I think my mother is right pretty, Mrs. Weston.”

“So do I. And it was nice of you to say it.”

“But I don’t see anything wrong in sayin’ what’s so,” he argued.  “I seen you kind of raise your eyebrows, and I thought mebby I was bein’ took as a joke.”

“Oh, no, indeed!”

Lorry disappeared again.  As he worked he wondered just how long it would be before Buck Hardy would look for him.  Lorry knew that some one must have taken food and water to the prisoner by this time, or to where the prisoner was supposed to be.  But he did not know that Hardy and his deputy had questioned Anita, and that she had told the sheriff the folks had all gone on a picnic to the hills.  The car, at the back of the hotel, was not visible from the street.