And if she herself could build the picture story they would later enact before the camera,--that would be better, much better than writing silly things about an impossible heroine in the hope of later selling the stuff! Automatically her thoughts swung over to the actual building of the scenes that would make for continuity of her lately-conceived plot.
Because she knew every turn and every crook of that coulee and every board in the buildings snuggled within it, she began to plan her scenes to fit the Lazy A, and her action to fit the spirit of the country and those countless small details of life which go to make what we call the local color of the place.
There never had been an organized gang of outlaws just here in this part of the country, but--there might have been.

Her dad could remember when Sid Cummings and his bunch hung out in the Bad Lands fifty miles to the east of there.

Neither had she ever had a brother, for that matter; and of her mother she had no more than the indistinct memory of a time when there had been a long, black box in the middle of the living-room, and a lot of people, and tears which fell upon her face and tickled her nose when her father held her tightly in his arms.
But she had the country, and she had Lite Avery, and to her it was very, very easy to visualize a story that had no foundation in fact.
It was what she had done ever since she could remember--the day-dreaming that had protected her from the keen edge of her loneliness..