``Aah, go on,'' she said. ``Just go the hell on.''

He grinned, nodded, and walked around to the front of the car. Lips pursed mournfully, he stared down at its crazily sagging left side. Then he hunkered down on the heels of his handmade boots, peered into the orderly chaos of axle, shock absorber, and spring.

He went prone on his stomach, the better to pursue his examination. After a time, he straightened again, brushing the red Permian dust from his hands, slapping it from his six dollar levis and his tailored, twenty-five dollar shirt.

He wore no gun -- a strange ommission for a peace officer in this country. Never, he'd once told Joyce, had he encountered any man or situation that called for a gun. And he really feels that way, she thought. That's really all he's got, all he is. Just a big pile of self-confidence in an almost teensy package. If I could make myself feel the same way.

She studied him hopefully, yearningly; against the limitless background of sky and wasteland it was easy to confirm her analysis. Here in the God-forsaken place, the westerly end of nowhere, Tom Lord looked almost insignificant, almost contemptible.

He was handsome, with his coal-black hair and eyes, his fine chiseled features. But she'd known plenty of handsomer guys, and, conceding his good looks, what was there left? He wasn't a big man; rather on the medium side. Neither was he very powerful of build. He could move very quickly, she knew (although he seldom found occasion to do so), but he was more wiry than truly strong. And his relatively small hands and feet gave him an almost delicate appearance.