Burnett had finished the house he had left her in but a few weeks before. It was a conventional cattleman's house, with a cupola and turned posts in the porch, the date of its construction and the owner's name painted in white against the green roof, where it could be read from passing trains.
Hall did not have any more sympathy for the losers in general than Pink Fergus, sheltered under her bob-tailed iran-gray hair, with her row of artificial bangs, somewhat younger, pinned on in front. He was aloof from the turmoil and concern, an outsider who had come hopefully looking for his chance in that country west of Dodge, and had not found it. He was about confirmed in the belief that there was no chance for a man there, as the old-timers had said, except it might be a rogue's chance, such as Burnett had played.
Next morning the Kansas City papers arrived, giving the story of Burnett's downward plunge from his high importance. The amount he had managed to get away with was only speculative, the bankers having shut up tighter than canned beans. Detectives had followed the fugitive to Mexico, where he was insolent and defiant, there being no treaty between the two nations in those days covering his offense.
That same morning Pete Farley's car was set in on the siding at Damascus. Out of it a company of engineers descended and began surveying the site for a roundhouse and the long-promised shops. Compensation came to Damascus that way, close on the heels of its disaster.
Before the day was over other cars were set in: a steam shovel and a piledriver, with men to manipulate them.
