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 looking for work.  The men had played their usual pranks, fortunately with no serious consequences.  But Bailey should have known better, and she told him so that afternoon in the kitchen, while Pete slumbered blissfully in the next room.  “And he can help around the place, even if it is slack times,” she concluded.

That evening was one of the happiest evenings of Pete’s life.  He had never known the tender solicitude of a woman.  Mrs. Bailey treated him as a sort of semi-invalid, waiting on him, silencing the men’s good-natured joshing with her sharp tongue, feeding him canned peaches—­a rare treat—­and finally enthroning him in her own ample rocking-chair, somewhat to Pete’s embarrassment, and much to the amusement of the men.

“He sure can ride it!” said a cowboy, indicating the rocking-chair.

“Bill Haskins, you need a shave!” said Mrs. Bailey.

The aforesaid Bill Haskins, unable to see any connection between his remark and the condition of his beard, stared from one to another of his blank-faced companions, grew red, stammered, and felt of his chin.

“I reckon I do,” he said weakly, and rising he plodded to the bunk-house.

“And if you want to smoke,” said Mrs. Bailey, indicating another of the boys who had just rolled and lighted a cigarette, “there’s all outdoors to do it in.”

This puncher also grew red, rose, and sauntered out.

Bailey and the two remaining cowboys shuffled their feet, wondering who would be the next to suffer the slings and arrows of Ma Bailey’s indignation. They considered the Blue Smoke episode closed.  Evidently Ma Bailey did not.  Bailey himself wisely suggested that they go over to the bunk-house.  It would be cooler there.  The cowboys rose promptly and departed.  But they were cowboys and not to be silenced so easily.

They loved Ma Bailey and they dearly loved to tease her.  Strong, rugged, and used to activity, they could not be quiet long.  Mrs. Bailey hitched a chair close to Pete and had learned much of his early history—­for Pete felt that the least he could do was to answer her kindly questions—­and he, in turn, had been feeling quite at home in her evident sympathy, when an unearthly yell shattered the quiet of the summer evening.  More yells—­and a voice from the darkness stated that some one was hurt bad; to bring a light.  Groans, heartrending and hoarse, punctuated the succeeding silence.  “It’s Jim,” the voice asserted.  “Guess his leg’s bruk.”