He stood there in his fur coat and held it in hands that could bend a horseshoe. It was small and pink and trimmed with lace.The young woman behind the counter asked if it was a gift."How much?" he said.By the end of the month, half the town had a theory about it. Not one of them was right.Thaddeus Rourke was 45 years old and 6 feet 7 inches tall. And in Alder Gap, Colorado, he was the one man nobody argued with. He had shoulders like a door and a beard like a hedge, and his face wore an expression so severe that grown men crossed the street rather than ask him the time.He came down from the high country four times a year on a gray mule named Congress, who disagreed with him on principle. He had lived alone for 20 years in a cabin among the pines, a day's ride above town. He had come west after the war with a rifle, a bedroll, and a grievance against crowds.Nobody called him Thaddeus. The few who called him anything called him Thad, and not to his face.When he came to town, he bought the same things every time: flour, coffee, salt, lead, and a sack of dried beans. He paid in coin. He said, "Morning," and, "Obliged." And on one celebrated occasion in 1884: "The wheel is cracked." Then he loaded the mule and went home.The barber, Wilbur Hatch, had once timed one of these visits at 11 minutes door-to-door."Maybe he likes it up there," said the young woman at the store."Nobody likes it that much," said Wilbur.She was Clara Brandt, 26, quick-tongued and sharp-eyed. She had run her late father's store for three years with a ledger, a shotgun under the counter, and a strict policy of not being impressed by anyone. She had never heard Thad Rourke say more than nine words together.That was how things stood on Monday, the 10th of September, 1888, when he came in and asked for a baby's dress.Clara had been counting change when the bell rang. She looked up, saw the coat, and reached automatically for the flour."No," said Thad.He crossed the floor and stopped at the shelf of children's things. He looked at the small garments the way a man looks at a map of country he has never seen. Then, he picked up a pink dress with a lace collar. In his hand, it looked like a flower in a fist."Is it a gift, Mr. Rourke?""How much?""75 cents."He laid the coin on the counter and did not say what it was for. He did not know yet whether anyone would come to wear it. He bought it anyway. He wrapped it in his own handkerchief as carefully as another man might wrap a cartridge, and walked out.He came back the next Monday, which was impossible.This time he wanted white booties, two soft blankets, and a rag doll with a blue calico dress and yarn for hair."A doll is not for a baby," said Clara. "Before she is three, she eats it."