Buck Brady stopped whittling long enough to brush aside the damp lock of roan colored hair from his forehead and consider the two passengers on the Mohave Wells-Lone Mule stage. The girl did not look over eighteen; she had hair the color of spun gold, and a delicate oval face. Buck could not tell the color of her eyes at that distance, but he knew they were blue. She was wearing a blue dress. The man was possibly less than twenty-five, rather delicate looking, and his hair was of nearly the same color as the girl’s.…
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