"Sure. An' not so very long ago. Here, look out the window." He clapped his
big hand on my knee; then pointed. "See that hill there. Dead Man's Hill it
was once, where they buried the fellers as died with their boots on."

I stared, and even stretched my neck out of the window.

"Yes, old Dodge was sure lively," he continued, as our train passed on. "I
seen a little mix-up there myself in the early eighties. Five cow-punchers,
friends they was, had been visitin' town. One feller, playful-like, takes
another feller's quirt--that's a whip. An' the other feller, playful-like,
says, 'Give it back.' Then they tussles for it, an' rolls on the ground. I
was laughin', as was everybody, when, suddenly, the owner of the quirt
thumps his friend. Both cowboys got up, slow, an' watchin' of each other.
Then the first feller, who had started the play, pulls his gun. He'd hardly
flashed it when they all pulls guns, an' it was some noisy an' smoky. In
about five seconds there was five dead cowpunchers. Killed themselves, as
you might say, just for fun. That's what life was worth in old Dodge."
After this story I felt more kindly disposed ward my travelling companion,
and would have asked for more romances but the conductor came along and
engaged him in conversation. Then my neighbor across the aisle, a young
fellow not much older than myself, asked me to talk to him.

"Why, yes, if you like," I replied, in surprise. He was pale; there were
red spots in his cheeks, and dark lines under his weary eyes.

"You look so strong and eager that it's done me good to watch you," he
explained, with a sad smile. "You see--I'm sick."

I told him I was very sorry, and hoped he would get well soon.