as surprised at the answer.

"As matters stand, I'd rather be shovelling here than playing
tennis--anywhere."

"It's the first time you ever saw the West from a cab-window, I'm
betting," said Ben. And George Graham, who had seen more of the West
than Ben could ever hope to see, and who knew the Silver Run country
before ever the railway reached the foot-hills, had the wisdom to
answer, "You'd win."

And now at Buffalo Butte 705 was side-tracked, awaiting the coming of
passenger No. 4, east bound, and then--then there would be a clear run
to and through Argenta. Then would come the familiar scenes about old
Fort Reynolds; then the wild and picturesque beauty of Squaw Canon and
Hatch's Cove, and then George Graham would be able to judge by surface
indications how far his disguise had really disguised him. Toomey had
already told him where Nolan and Feeny could be found. Toomey was to
send word or a letter to both of them, and then it would be time to
decide on the next move.

For now the scheme was to reach the heart of what might be called the
enemy's country, and to get there unsuspected, unobserved, and thus far
all was working well.

It was the second morning after his reaching Denver. Mr. Anthony had
put him through to the Springs, and then to Chimney Switch, where he
was to wait for 705 and Toomey. And even now as they stood there, he
and Toomey, exchanging at intervals some low-toned words at the switch,
the eastward skies were slowly taking on their early morning garb of
pink and violet, the eastward fronts of the snow-sifted peaks and domes
far to the north and south were lighting up with wondrous hues of gold
and crimson; the stars aloft were paling and the moon was sinking low,
and still big 705 stood hissing and grumbling placidly on the long
siding, and the green lights back at the caboose blinked sleepily
against the dawn. Two glimmering threads of light in rigid right lines,
converging far beyond the rear of the train, stretched eastward from
their feet until lost in the shadows of Buffalo Butte, and not yet had
Toomey's accustomed ear been able to detect the faint, whirring, song
of the rails that tells of the coming of far-distant, thundering
wheels. "She's late again," said Toomey, uneasily. "We should have
heard her whistling for Spearman's Ranch five minutes ago, and I wanted
to pull you out of Argenta before seven o'clock."

"You still think I'm not grimy enough," said Geordie, with a grin. "I