“Well,” said Tubal, “that’s that. I hain’t mislaid no pet sheriff.”
“Mebby,” said Simmy, with bated breath, “them miscreants has waylaid him and masacreed him.”
“Shucks!... Say, you been readin’ them dime-novel, Jesse James stories ag’in.... Go wash your face.”
In the distance, echoing from hill to hill and careening down the valley, sounded the whistle of a locomotive.
“On time,” said Tubal.
“And her comin’ on it,” said Simmy.
From that moment neither of them spoke. They remained in a sort of state of suspended animation, listening for the arrival of the train, awaiting the arrival of the new proprietor of the Gibeon Free Press.... Ten minutes later the bus stopped before the door and a young woman alighted. Two pairs of eyes inside the printing office stared at her and then turned to meet.
“’Tain’t her,” said Tubal.
Tubal based his statement upon a preconception with which the young lady did not at all agree. She was small and very slender. Tubal guessed she was eighteen, when, as a matter of fact, she was twenty-two. There was about her an air of class, of breeding such as Tubal had noted in certain summer visitors in Gibeon. From head to feet she was dressed in white—a tiny white hat upon her chestnut hair, a white jacket, a white skirt, not too short, but of suitable length for an active young woman, and white buckskin shoes.... All these points Tubal might have admitted in the new owner of the Free Press, but when he scrutinized her face, he knew. No relative of Old Man Nupley could look like that! She was lovely—no less—with the dazzling, bewitching loveliness of intelligent youth. She was something more than lovely, she was individual. There was a certain pertness about her nose and chin, humor lurked in the corners of her eyes. She would think and say interesting things, and it would be very difficult to frighten her.... Tubal waggled his head, woman-hater that he was, and admitted inwardly that there were points in her favor.
And then—and then she advanced toward the door and opened it.