straggling at intervals a dozen rough, rambling, one-storied board
houses. For miles in all directions the desert stretched dry and
barren. The faces of women and children peered out of windows, the
forms of roughly garbed men lounged in the doorways of the store and
the saloons. All the denizens of Prairie City manifested a mild
interest in the arrival of Number 1.

"I guess you called the turn," sputtered the fat man. "Here come the
crazy folks now!"

A cloud of dust swirling higher and higher in the still air, the
clatter of hoofs, and two horses swept around the farthest house,
carrying their riders at breakneck speed into the one and only street.
At first Greek took it to be a race, and then he thought it a runaway.
As it was the first interesting incident since Grand Central Station
had dropped out of sight four days ago, he craned his neck to watch.

The two riders were half-way down the street now, a tall bay forging
steadily ahead of a little Mexican mustang until ten feet or more
intervened between the two horses. The train jerked; the Wells Fargo
man, with his truck alongside the express-car far ahead, yelled
something to the man who had taken his packages aboard.

"The bay wins," grinned the fat man. "It looks--Gad! It's a woman!"

Greek saw that it was a woman in khaki riding-habit, and that the
spurs she wore were gnawing into her horse's flanks. He began to take
a sudden, stronger interest. He leaned farther out, hardly realizing
that he had called to the conductor to hold the train a moment. For it
was at last clear that these were not mad people, but merely a couple