together so that with the momentum he had acquired he slid almost to
the cars. As he stopped the girl swung lightly from the saddle and,
seeming scarcely to have put foot upon the sandy soil, caught the
hand-rail as the car came by and swung on to the lowest step. The man
behind her caught up her horse's reins, whirled, sweeping his hat off
to her, and turned back.

"Which is some riding, huh?" chuckled the fat man, his own head
withdrawn as he reached for his beer-glass.

"What's the excitement?" Roger's interest had not been great enough to
send him to the window.

"Some people trying to catch the train," Greek told him, shortly. For
some reason, not clear to himself, he did not care to be more
definite.

"I don't blame the poor devils. Think of waiting there until another
came by!" Roger washed the dryness out of his mouth with a generous
sip of his whisky and seltzer.

The fat man finished his glass of beer and rang for another. Greek sat
gazing out over the wide wastes of the desert. He had never before
been in a land like this. Now that more than two thousand miles
lengthened out between him and New York, he had felt himself more than
ever an exile. Heretofore he had given no thought to the people
dwelling here beyond the last reaches of those things for which
civilization stood to him. He was not in the habit of thinking deeply.
That part of the day's work could be left to William Conniston,
Senior, while William Conniston, Junior, more familiarly known to his