her baggage was ready. Carley hurried back to her room to pack.

She had expected the stage would be a motor bus, or at least a large
touring car, but it turned out to be a two-seated vehicle drawn by a team
of ragged horses. The driver was a little wizen-faced man of doubtful
years, and he did not appear obviously susceptible to the importance of
his passenger. There was considerable freight to be hauled, besides
Carley's luggage, but evidently she was the only passenger.

"Reckon it's goin' to be a bad day," said the driver. "These April days
high up on the desert are windy an' cold. Mebbe it'll snow, too. Them
clouds hangin' around the peaks ain't very promisin'. Now, miss, haven't
you a heavier coat or somethin'?"

"No, I have not," replied Carley. "I'll have to stand it. Did you say this
was desert?"

"I shore did. Wal, there's a hoss blanket under the seat, an' you can have
that," he replied, and, climbing to the seat in front of Carley, he took up
the reins and started the horses off at a trot.

At the first turning Carley became specifically acquainted with the
driver's meaning of a bad day. A gust of wind, raw and penetrating, laden
with dust and stinging sand, swept full in her face. It came so suddenly
that she was scarcely quick enough to close her eyes. It took considerable
clumsy effort on her part with a handkerchief, aided by relieving tears, to
clear her sight again. Thus uncomfortably Carley found herself launched on
the last lap of her journey.

All before her and alongside lay the squalid environs of the town. Looked