the night had come.

"We're here," Harley said to Sylvia, "but I confess that this does not
look promising. Certainly there is nobody running to meet us."

She was gazing with curiosity.

"It's like no other town that I ever saw," she said.

Harley rode up by the side of the guide.

"The place looks lonesome," he said.

"Maybe they've all gone to bed; there ain't anythin' here to keep 'em
awake," replied the guide, with the old puzzling and derisive smile.

Harley turned coldly away. He did not like to have any one make fun of
him, and that he saw clearly was the guide's intention. Jimmy Grayson
was still thinking of things far off, and Mr. Heathcote, chilled and
shrunk, seemed to have lost the power of speech. "King" Plummer, for
reasons of his own, was silent too.

The guide rode slowly towards the large brick building that Harley took
to be the hotel, and, at that moment, the snow slackened for a little
while; the last rays of the setting sun struck upon the dun walls and
gilded them with red tracery; some panes of glass gave back the ruddy
glare, but mostly the windows were bare and empty, like eyeless sockets.
Harley looked farther, and all the other buildings--the opera-house, the
stores, and the residences--were the same, desolate and decaying. About
the place were snow-covered heaps, evidently the refuse of mining
operations, but they saw no human being.

The effect upon all save the guide was startling. Harley saw the look of
chilled wonder grow on Jimmy Grayson's face. Mr. Heathcote raised
himself in his saddle and stared, uncomprehending. Harley had been deep
in the desert, but never before had he seen such desolation and ruin,
because here was the body, but all life had gone from it. He felt as one
alone with ghosts. Sylvia was silent, her confidence gone for the
moment. The guide laughed dryly.

"You guessed it," he said, looking at Harley. "It's a dead city. Queen
City has been as dead as Adam these half-dozen years. When the mines
played out, it died; there was no earthly use for Queen City any longer,
and by-and-by everybody went away. But I've seen the old town when it
was alive. Five thousand people here. Money a-flowin', drinks passin'
over the counter one way and the coin the other, the gamblin'-houses an'
the theatre chock-full, an' women, any kind you please. But there ain't
a soul left now."

The snow thinned still more, and the buildings rose before them gaunt
and grim.

"We'll st