air with a silvery radiance and floods the barren plain with a
transfiguring whiteness, in which the gray sands glimmer as if with
some unearthly light of their own.

The day had been long, wearisome, and unspeakably hot and dusty; and
with the coming of this beautiful night and its cool breezes most of
the passengers betook themselves to the car steps and platforms, where
they lingered until we reached the little town of Separ, late in the
evening. As the train stopped, we saw that apparently the entire
population of the village was crowded inside the station house. One
after another, men came cautiously out upon the platform, carrying guns
in their hands and casting long, anxious looks across the plain. Their
set faces and ready revolvers and rifles showed that it was no ordinary
matter which had sent the whole town to find protection in the railroad
depot.

They told us that a man had come running into town a little while
before, and, falling headlong, exhausted, at the feet of the first
person he met, had cried out that the Apaches were coming. Hastily
revived and cared for, he explained that the Indians had attacked the
cattle camp, ten or twelve miles south of Separ, where he and some
other cowboys had been making a round-up, and killed all but himself.
He had managed to creep out undiscovered and had run at the top of his
speed all the way to Separ to bring the warning. He said that the
Apaches, in a large band, numbering at least a hundred, had surprised
the camp, killing the men as they lay in their blankets and committing
horrible atrocities upon the dead bodies, and had then fallen upon the
horses and cattle, killing and maiming the poor beasts in mere lust of
cruelty. He was sure they were following him--he had heard their yells
several times during his desperate race, and each time he had redoubled