The notorious bandit Clint stumbles upon a widowed mother and her daughter. The girl was pretty in an unkempt sort of way; she was also young, no more than fifteen. Her eyes were large and brown and luminous, her hair a mass of chestnut ringlets tumbling down past her shoulders. The grave of the husband is on a little knoll beyond the farmyard, rising from a clump of dried grass. It is a simple affair, since there was no money to do better: a rough slab of granite with the bare mention of the name and dates.

The sun beats on the broken homestead, and on the windmill with wings spread like those of a moth, leaning on one heavy strut. The pump is stiff and the treadles crack when pushed down on, but water spurts into the trough. The land was rich. It could be plowed easily. It would grow corn, or wheat, or fruit. There was water to be had from digging deep in the ground. There were trees for building and wood to burn. There was a small house too, one room at first, then with additions as the family got bigger.

Clint smiled cruelly, and for a moment Clara saw him for the devil he was. He would ride in, forcing himself into this family as the new husband and father. He would show Clara her new place first. His hand groped under her dress and she slapped it away. He glared at her, hissing through his teeth, and slapped her hard across the face. Her head snapped sideways and she saw countless tiny lights explode into existence and vanish.

Clint leaned over her and ripped open her shirt; the buttons popped off and rolled away in the dust. His hands slid around her body and wrestled with her struggling form.