was three o'clock of the afternoon. As I only occasionally managed Soda
Springs I felt no inclination to hurry on the return journey. My
intention was to watch the Overland through, to make some small
purchases at the Lone Star Emporium, to hoist one or two at McGrue's,
and to dine sumptuously at the best--and only--hotel. A programme simple
in theme but susceptible to variations.

The latter began early. After posing kiddishly as a rough, woolly,
romantic cowboy before the passengers of the Overland, I found myself
chaperoning a visitor to our midst. By sheer accident the visitor had
singled me out for an inquiry.

"Can you tell me how to get to Hooper's ranch?" he asked.

So I annexed him promptly in hope of developments.

He was certainly no prize package, for he was small, pale, nervous,
shifty, and rat-like; and neither his hands nor his eyes were still for
an instant. Further to set him apart he wore a hard-boiled hat, a
flaming tie, a checked vest, a coat cut too tight for even his emaciated
little figure, and long toothpick shoes of patent leather. A fairer mark
for cowboy humour would be difficult to find; but I had a personal
interest and a determined character so the gang took a look at me and
bided their time.

But immediately I discovered I was going to have my hands full. It
seemed that the little, shifty, rat-faced man had been possessed of a
small handbag which the negro porter had failed to put off the train;
and which was of tremendous importance. At the discovery it was lacking
my new friend went into hysterics. He ran a few feet after the