tonight." Down at the edge of the lot where the city
streets pointed to the business district of the city, the ancient
model paused for the final conference between the new partners.

"Now what's your address, Mr. Welborn?" asked Davy, searching about
for pencil and paper. "If any of our plans go haywire, I would want to
let you know."

"And that's just another inconvenience in the business," replied
Welborn in a cautious manner. "My mail address is Adot. I get--"

"Adot? Adot? Where? What?" interposed the midget. "A dot on what?"
"The post office is Adot," replied the miner. "Capital _A-d-o-t_,
Adot. It was probably so named from its importance on the map. It's
just a wide spot in the road and a dirt road. We get mail twice a week
and I am fifteen miles away. Neither will the telegraph lines help;
there's no station nearer than this town. I have no telephone. The
only way I could be reached, would be for you to go to the
broadcasting station in Omaha and put through an S.O.S. on Tuesday
night, as I have a radio. But you would have to put the call in early
as I am going to be in this town bright and early Wednesday morning."

"That's the spirit," crowed the little man. "Both of us, right here in
Cheyenne, Wednesday morning. I will be here unless this Union Pacific
folds up and quits. Why when you come to think of it, I wouldn't want
to be where there was mail deliveries, telephones, and such; that's
what I am running away from, that and the mob. Good-by, Sam," he
called out, as the car took the green lights. "I'll meet you here on
the A-Dot."

"Good-by, Prince," said the big man as the car got under way.

That night, an ancient model T followed by a ramshackle, home-made
trailer, pulled away from the shipping platforms of the Cheyenne
Outfitting & Supply Company loaded to the guards with pump, pump jack,
pipe, lag-screws, wrenches, hand drills, dynamite, fuses and caps, and
a hundredweight of groceries. Cramped under the wheel, driving as
carefully as his cargo would warrant, sat Sam Welborn, the second
happiest man west of the Missouri. The happiest man west of the big
river was flouncing around in his berth on the third section of the
Great International Circus trains bound for North Bend, Nebraska,
planning his outfit to be purchased in a few days at Omaha.

3

An hour in advance of the arrival of the Pacific Limited, Sam Welborn
paced the platform of the Union Pacific passenger station at Cheyenne,