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When Ardee’s car quit, he was aghast to find himself temporarily tethered to a bunch of rubes in a berg called Middle Valley. There was no state-of-the-art repair service. There was no motel. His hopes of getting a speedy fix were dashed when Jimbo, the local gasoline jockey, informed him the parts might not arrive on the bus from Denver for two or three days. That was, however, both his and the town’s good fortune. The wait piqued his curiosity, and when his old Ford was finally roadworthy, he stayed on to evaluate the town as a possible centerpiece for a novel he intended to write. As things turned out, he was the spark the town needed to bring it on board with the twentieth century.