ender gravely. "Tell us about
that time you licked them dozen mad Apache warriors, Bill," he requested.
"That was a blamed good scrap from what I can remember."

"Oh, I've told you about that scrap so much I'm ashamed to tell it again,"
replied the driver, wishing that he could remember just what he had said
about it, and sorry that his memory was so inferior to his imagination.

"Bet you get scalped goin' back," pleasantly remarked Johnny Sands, who
had not fought in the Civil War, but who often ferociously wished he had
when old Pop Westley was telling of how Mead took Vicksburg, or some other
such bit of history. Pop must have been connected to a flying regiment,
for he had fought under every general on the Union side.

"You're on for the drinks, Johnny," answered Bill promptly, feeling that
it would be a double joy to win. "The war-whoops never lived who could
scalp Bill Howland, and don't forget it, neither," he boastfully averred
as he made for the door, very anxious to get away from that awful gnawing
temptation to open their eyes wide about his recent experience.

"Then The Orphan will get you, shore," came from Pop Westley. Bill jumped
and slammed the door so hard that it shook the building.

He saw that his sextet was being properly fed and watered for the return
trip, which would not take place until the next day. But a trifle like
twenty-four hours had no effect on Bill under his present stress of
excitement, and he fooled about the coach as if it was his dearest
possession, inspecting the king-bolt, running-gear and whiffletrees with
anxious eyes. He wanted no break-down, because the Apaches _might_ be
farther north than was their custom. That done he took his rifle apart
and thoroughly cleaned and oiled it, seeing that the magazine was full
to the end. Then he had his supper and went straight therefrom to bed,
not daring to again meet his friends for fear of breaking his promise
to The Orphan.

At dawn he drew up beside the small station and waited for the arrival of
the train, which even then was a speck at the meeting place of the rails
on the horizon.

The station agent sauntered over to him and grinned.

"I guess I will get that telegraph line after all, Bill," he remarked
happily. "I heard that the division superintendent wanted to get word
to me in a hurry the other day, and raised the devil when he couldn't.
I've been fighting for a wire to civilization for three years, and now I
reckon she'