in her indolent, incurious eyes. Indeed, his abundant and
picturesque area was so vivid that it would have been difficult
not to feel his presence anywhere, let alone on a journey so
monotonous as this was proving to be.

It had been at a water-tank, near Socorro, that the Limited,
churning furiously through brown Arizona in pursuit of a lost
half-hour, jarred to a sudden halt that shook sleep from the
drowsy eyes of bored passengers. Through the window of her
Pullman the young woman in Section 3 had glimpsed a bevy of angry
train officials eddying around a sturdy figure in the center,
whose strong, lean head rose confidently above the press. There
was the momentary whirl of a scuffle, out of the tangle of which
shot a brakeman as if propelled from a catapult. The circle
parted, brushed aside by a pair of lean shoulders, muscular and
broad. Yet a few moments and the owner of the shoulders led down
the aisle to the vacant section opposite her a procession whose
tail was composed of protesting trainmen.

"You had no right to flag the train, Sheriff Collins, and you'll
have to get off; that's all there is to it," the conductor was
explaining testily.

"Oh, that's all right," returned the offender with easy good
nature, making himself at home in Section 4. "Tell the company to
send in its bill. No use jawing about it."

"You'll have to get off, sir."

"That's right--at Tucson."