Indeed, I am very sure she would not. Killings such as her father heard
of with his lips drawn tight and the cords standing out on the sides of
his skinny neck she would have considered the grim tragedies they were,
without once thinking of the "picture value" of the crime.
As it was, her West was filled with men who died suddenly in gobs of red
paint and girls who rode loose-haired and panting with hand held over
the heart, hurrying for doctors, and cowboys and parsons and such. She
had seen many a man whip pistol from holster and dare a mob with lips
drawn back in a wolfish grin over his white, even teeth, and kidnappings
were the inevitable accompaniment of youth and beauty.
Lorraine learned rapidly. In three years she thrilled to more
blood-curdling adventure than all the Bad Men in all the West could have
furnished had they lived to be old and worked hard at being bad all
their lives. For in that third year she worked her way enthusiastically
through a sixteen-episode movie serial called "The Terror of the Range."
She was past mistress of romance by that time. She knew her West.
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