Publisher's Synopsis
Young Andrew Lanning lived in the small, hushed world of his own thoughts. He neither loved norhated the people around him. He simply did not see them. His mother-it was from her that heinherited the softer qualities of his mind and his face-had left him a little stock of books. And thoughAndy was by no means a reader, he had at least picked up that dangerous equipment of fiction whichenables a man to dodge reality and live in his dreams. Those dreams had as little as possible to do withthe daily routine of his life, and certainly the handling of guns, which his uncle enforced upon him, wasnever a part of the future as Andy saw it.It was now the late afternoon; the alkali dust in the road was still in a white light, but the temperaturein the shop had dropped several degrees. The horse of Buck Heath was shod, and Andy was laying histools away for the day when he heard the noise of an automobile with open muffler coming down thestreet. He stepped to the door to watch, and at that moment a big blue car trundled into view around thebend of the road. The rear wheels struck a slide of sand and dust, and skidded; a girl cried out; then thebig machine gathered out of the cloud of dust, and came toward Andy with a crackling like musketry, and it was plain that it would leap through Martindale and away into the country beyond at a bound.Andy could see now that it was a roadster, low-hung, ponderous, to keep the road.Pat Gregg was leaving the saloon; he was on his horse, but he sat the saddle slanting, and his head wasturned to give the farewell word to several figures who bulged through the door of the saloon. For thatreason, as well as because of the fumes in his brain, he did not hear the coming of the automobile. Hisfriends from the saloon yelled a warning, but he evidently thought it some jest, as he waved his handwith a grin of appreciation. The big car was coming, rocking with its speed; it was too late now to stopthat flying mass of metal
