"Wher're yu' bound?" inquired Honey.

"East," said Lin.

"Better jump in here, then. We're goin' west."

"That just suits me," said Lin.

The busy lanterns wagged among the switches, the steady lights of the
saloons shone along the town's wooden facade. From the bluffs that wall
Green River the sweet, clean sage-brush wind blew down in currents
freshly through the coal-smoke. A wrench passed through the train from
locomotive to caboose, each fettered car in turn strained into motion and
slowly rolled over the bridge and into silence from the steam and the
bells of the railroad yard. Through the open windows of the caboose great
dull-red cinders rattled in, and the whistles of distant Union Pacific
locomotives sounded over the open plains ominous and long, like ships at
sea.

Honey and Lin sat for a while, making few observations and far between,
as their way is between whom flows a stream of old-time understanding.
Mutual whiskey and silence can express much friendship, and eloquently.

"What are yu' doing at present?" Lin inquired.

"Prospectin'."

Now prospecting means hunting gold, except to such spirits as the boy
Lin. To these it means finding gold. So Lin McLean listened to the talk
of his friend Honey Wiggin as the caboose trundled through the night. He