more saddened than swelled with pride by this respectful adulation, knowing, as Mrs. Brassfield did not know, the reason of his growth to heroic stature in their eyes since morning. Zora had told them of the shooting affair in town. This altered attitude of respect and admiration was only the sad proof of his own glum conclusion last night: that the difference between heroism and obscurity in that country was the difference between a hit and a miss.
Mrs. Moore was an unaffected, friendly woman, somewhat loud and effusive, like her husband. It was easy to see where Zora got her good looks. Mrs. Moore was still fresh, youthful and slim, some evidence of refinement about her such as school teachers who marry farmers retain a long time against the wear and tear of life's hardships in that situation.
Zora and her mother proved entirely worthy of Mollie Brassfield's high commendation. They took Dunham into the parlor after supper, where Zora played the organ and the boys wanted to get him into a game of seven-up. When their mother reprimanded them for their forwardness they changed around from chair to chair, gazing at Bill with great admiration and deep respect from different angles, as if trying to get hold of his method of putting notable gunmen on the shelf by observing his movements down to the slightest degree.
The parlor was a large room flaming with brightflowered wallpaper, so congested by furniture one had to move about with care. The chairs were adorned by cotton-twine doilies, the handiwork of Mrs. Moore,
