length to meet her!" said I.

A wave of pain crossed her face. "Nate didn't know," she said then,
lightly. "You see, Nate's only a boy, and regular thoughtless about
writing."

Ah! So this Nate never wrote, and his sister loved and championed him!
Many such stray Nates and Bobs and Bills galloped over Wyoming, lost and
forgiven.

"I'm starting for him in the Buffalo stage," continued the girl.

"Then I'll have your company on a weary road," said I; for my journey
was now to that part of the cattle country.

"To Buffalo?" she said, quickly. "Then maybe you--maybe--My brother is
Nate Buckner." She paused. "Then you're not acquainted with him?"

"I may have seen him," I answered, slowly. "But faces and names out here
come and go."

I knew him well enough. He was in jail, convicted of forgery last week,
waiting to go to the penitentiary for five years. And even this wild
border community that hated law courts and punishments had not been
sorry, for he had cheated his friends too often, and the wide charity
of the sage-brush does not cover that sin. Beneath his pretty looks and
daring skill with horses they had found vanity and a cold, false heart;
but his sister could not. Here she was, come to find him after lonely
years, and to this one soul that loved him in the world how was I to
tell the desolation and the disgrace? I was glad to hear her ask me if
the stage went soon after supper.

"Now isn't that a bother?" said she, when I answered that it did not
start till morning. She glanced with rueful gayety at the hotel. "Never
mind," she continued, briskly; "I'm used to things. I'll just sit up
somewhere. Maybe the agent will let me stay in the office. You're sure
all that shooting's only jollification?"

"Certain," I said. "But I'll go and see."

"They always will have their fun," said she. "But I hate to have a poor
boy get hurt--even him deserving it!"

"They use pistols instead of fire-crackers," said I. "But you must never
sleep in that office. I'll see what we can do."

"Why, you're real kind!" she exclaimed, heartily. And I departed,
wondering what I ought to do.

Perhaps I should have told you before that Separ was a place once--a
sort of place; but you will relish now, I am convinced, the pithy fable
of its name.

Midway between two sections of this still unfinished line that, rail
after rail and mile upon mile, crawled over the earth's face visibly
during the constructing hours of each new day, l