rear car, and looked his last upon the little desolate station and its crowd of habitués.
The old French gentleman was already climbing into a rickety vehicle, while his daughter unfastened the hitching-rein. The stage-driver was waving a last adieu to his wife and his little child, wailing at the grief of a first parting. Inside the restaurant its proprietor was seen locking a cash-box which had been filled at the cost of the pockets and digestion of the travellers. The one-eyed bar-tender was the only member of the group of people who was still busy, and his skilled fingers tossed a red liquid from the tin to the crystal tumbler accurately. His task was never done, day or night.
On sped the train, and in a brief space Cheyenne station was lost to view.
As the day waned, the intense heat moderated, and the passengers on the Eastward train revived a little from the wilted condition they had experienced. They could look out now over the wide plains of sunburnt
