he’s never come to see me. Stand-offish—and that sort of thing doesn’t go on the desert. We’re all friends here.”
“You’ve been a friend to a good many,” said Paula Wendell.
“Why not?” shrugged Doctor Whitcomb. “What’s life for, if not to help one another? I’ve done my best—I only wish it had been more.”
Bob Eden felt suddenly humble in this woman’s presence.
“Come on—I’ll show you round my place,” invited the doctor. “I’ve made the desert bloom—put that on my tombstone. You should have seen this neighborhood when I came. Just a rifle and a cat—that’s all I had at first. And the cat wouldn’t stay. My first house here I built with my own hands. Five miles to Eldorado—I walked in and back every day. Mr. Ford hadn’t been heard of then.”
She led the way into the yard, in and out among the little cottages. Tired faces brightened at her approach, weary eyes gleamed with sudden hope.
“They’ve come to her from all over the country,” Paula Wendell said. “Broken-hearted, sick, discouraged. And she’s given them new life—”
“Nonsense,” cried the doctor. “I’ve just been friendly. It’s a pretty hard world. Being friendly—that works wonders.”
In the doorway of one of the cottages they came upon Martin Thorn, deep in conversation with Shaky Phil Maydorf. Even Maydorf mellowed during a few words with the doctor.
Finally, when they reluctantly left, Doctor Whitcomb followed them
