out thar."

The men appeared divided in their opinions of Bill Horn. From him
they drifted to talk of possible Indian raids and scouted the idea;
then they wondered if the famous Pony Express had been over this
Laramie Trail; finally they got on the subject of a rumored railroad
to be built from East to West.

"No railroad can't be built over this trail," said Jones, bluntly.

"Sure not. But couldn't more level ground be dug?" asked another.

"Dug? Across them Utah deserts an' up them mountains? Hell! Men sure
hev more sense than thet," exclaimed the third.

And so they talked and argued at their tasks.

The women, however, had little to say. One, the wife of the
loquacious Jones, lived among past associations of happy years that
would not come again--a sober-faced, middle-aged woman. The other
woman was younger, and her sad face showed traces of a former
comeliness. They called her Mrs. Durade. The girl was her daughter
Allie. She appeared about fifteen years old, and was slight of form.
Her face did not seem to tan. It was pale. She looked tired, and was
shy and silent, almost ashamed. She had long, rich, chestnut-colored
hair which she wore in a braid. Her eyes were singularly large and
dark, and violet in color.

"It's a long, long way we are from home yet," sighed Mrs. Jones.