-room. There was a tap on his door. Raising
his head impatiently, Banneker saw, through the window already dimming
with the gathering dusk, a large roan horse, droopy and disconsolate in
the downpour. He jumped up and threw open his retreat. A tall woman,
slipping out of a streaming poncho, entered. The simplicity, verging
upon coarseness, of her dress detracted nothing from her distinction of
bearing.

"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiar
clarity.

"Bad trouble, Miss Camilla," answered Banneker. He pushed forward a
chair, but she shook her head. "A loosened rock smashed into Number
Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They've got
doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track's out below. And from
what I get on the wire"--he nodded toward the east--"it'll be out above
before long."

"I'd better go up there," said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spoke
and there was a look of effort and pain in her face.

"No; I don't think so. But if you'll go over to the town and see that
Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengers
will be coming in pretty soon."

She made a quick gesture of repulsion. "Women can't go to Torrey's," she
said. "It's too filthy. Besides--I'll take in the women, if there aren't
too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita."

He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names,
won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know."

The manner of the two was that of familiars, of friends, though there
was a touch of deference in Banneker's bearing, too subtly personal to
be attributed to his official status. He went out to adjust the
visitor's poncho, and, swinging her leg across the Mexican saddle of her
horse with the mechanical ease of one habituated to this mode of travel,
she was off.

Again the agent returned to his unofficial task and was instantly
submerged in it. Impatiently he interrupted himself to light the lamps
and at once resumed his pen. An emphatic knock at his door only caused
him to shake his head. The summons was repeated. With a sigh Banneker
gathered the written sheets, enclosed them in 5 S 0027, and restored
that receptacle to its place. Meantime the knocking continued
impatiently, presently pointed by a deep--

"Any one inside there?"

"Yes," said Banneker, opening to face the bulky old man who had cared
for the wounded. "What's wanted?"

Uninvited, and with an assure