Bud Daley sat humped over on his wash-bench near the kitchen door of his unpretentious little ranch-house, staring with moody blue eyes across the hills. The wash-bench was sloppy with soap-suds, plain evidence that Bud had performed his ablutions in a violent manner. And as he sat looking moodily into space, he dangled a none-too-clean towel in his hands. Just behind him, leaning against the side of the kitchen door, stood Mrs. Daley, a thoughtful frown on her pretty face. She was dressed in a plain calico dress, faded from many washings; a girlish looking woman, whose crown of glorious auburn hair tumbled in unruly fashion about her face.…
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