occupied in keeping reasonably cool, to betray even a passing
interest in anything; except the arrival of a train of
desolate-looking mules bearing gold from the barren, melancholy
hills that rimmed the far-reaching alkali solitudes.

But the dust-whitened train, which twice a day puffed into Blue
Creek and twice a day puffed joyfully out again, had, on this
particular afternoon, set down a party which had caused unusual
speculation among the Blue Creekites.

"Thar's Jim Bell, frum out the desert, an' an old gent who looks
like he might be some kin to Jim, and then thar's them likely
lookin' lads an' those uncommon purty gals. Never know Jim hed a
fam'ly afore. Ef he hez he's kep it mighty quiet all these ya'rs."

These remarks emanated from the throat of Cash Dallam, owner of the
National House, Blue Creek's leading, and likewise only, hotel. The
National was a board structure, formerly painted--with some
originality of taste--a bright orange hue, relieved with red
trimmings round doors, windows and eaves. But the sun had blistered
and the hot desert winds had cracked and peeled its originally gaudy
hues, and it was now a melancholy monotone of dull, pallid yellow.
Here and there the paint had vanished altogether, and the bleached
boards showed underneath. Like most of the other structures in Blue
Creek--which boasted a general store, post office and Chinese
laundry and restaurant combined the National House was coated with a
thin layer of gray alkali dust, the gift of the glittering desert
beyond its gates.

Cash Dallam's companions on the porch, which faced the railroad