Bud liked to have his life run along accustomed lines with a more or less perfect balance of work and play, friendships and enmities.

He had grown up with the belief that any mystery is merely a synonym for menace.

He had learned to be wary of known enemies such as Indians and outlaws, and to trust implicitly his friends.

To feel now, without apparent cause, that his friends might be enemies in disguise, was a new experience that harried him.
He had come to Little Lost on Tuesday, straight from the Muleshoe where his presence was no longer desired for some reason not yet satisfactorily explained to him.

You know what happened on Tuesday.