Nan dismissed the matter in her own way.
"Sikkem's been on the ranch nigh three years. He's a cattleman first, and hates rustlers worse than poison. But he's tough. Oh, he's tough, all right. I wouldn't gamble a pea-shuck he hasn't quite a dandy bunch of notches on his gun. But we're used to his sort."
Then she went on in a reflective fashion as though hollowing out a train of thought inspired by the man under discussion:
"Sort o' seems queer the way we see things. Right here on the prairie we mostly take folks on trust, an' treat 'em as we find 'em. Maybe they're wanted for all sorts of crimes. Maybe they done a turn in penitentiary. Maybe they even shot up folk cold. These things don't signify a cent with us so they handle cattle right, and are ready to push lead into any bunch of rustlers lyin' around. Guess it's environment makes us that way. The prairie's so mighty wide it helps us folks to get wide."
Evie was watching the play of the girl's expressive eyes.
"I wonder—if you're right."
"Mostly, I guess."
"Mostly?"
Nan nodded.
"It isn't easy to condemn amongst folks on the prairie," she said with a sigh.