and a few types. Thurston was great on types.

The train slowed at a little station with a dismal red section
house in the immediate background and a red- fronted saloon close
beside. "Here we are," cried Graves, "and I ain't sorry; only I
wisht you was going to stop right now. But I'll look for yuh in
three or four days at the outside. So-long, Bud. Remember, the
Lazy Eight's your hang-out."



CHAPTER II

LOCAL COLOR IN THE RAW

For the rest of the way Thurston watched the green hills slide
by--and the greener hollows--and gave himself up to visions of
Fort Benton; visions of creaking bull-trains crawling slowly,
like giant brown worms, up and down the long hill; of many
high-piled bales of buffalo hides upon the river bank, and
clamorous little steamers churning up against the current; the
Fort Benton that had, for many rushing miles, filled and colored
the speech of Hank Graves and stimulated his childish
half-memory.

But when he reached the place and wandered aimlessly about the
streets, tile vision faded into half-resentful realization that
these things were no more forever. For the bull-trains, a
roundup outfit clattered noisily out of town and disappeared in
an elusive dust-cloud; for the gay-blanketed Indians slipping