was awake and sober. He made
a point, Santa Fe did, of being on hand when the train come in because
there always was chances somebody might be aboard he could do business
with; and he had to keep sober, mostly, same as I've said, or he
couldn't a-done his work so it would pay. He used to square things
up--when he really couldn't stand the strain no longer--by knocking
off dealing and having a good one lasting about a week at a time. It
was while he was on one of them tears of his, going it worse'n usual,
he got cleaned out in Denver Jones's place--and him able, when he
hadn't a jag on, to wipe up the floor with Denver!--and then went
ahead the next day, being still jagged, and shot poor old Bill Hart.
But them is matters that happened a little later, and will be spoke of
further on.

* * * * *

When the train pulled in alongside the deepo platform it didn't seem
at first there was nobody on it but the usual raft of Mexicans with
bundles in the day-coach--who all come a-trooping out, cluttered up
with their queer duds, and went to hugging their aunts and uncles who
was waiting for 'em in real Mexican style. Charley looked the lot over
and seen there was nothing in it worth taking time to; and then he got
his Denver paper from the messenger in the express-car and started off
to go on back to his room in the Forest Queen.

Down he come along the platform--he was a-looking at his _Tribune_,
and not paying no attention--and just as he got alongside the Pullman
a man stepped off it and most plumped into him; and would a-plumped
if he hadn't been so beat out by the hot weather he was going slow.
He was a little round friendly looking feller, with a red face and
little gray side-whiskers; and he was dressed up in black same as
Charley was--only he'd a shorter-tailed coat, and hadn't a white tie
on, and was wearing a shiny plug hat that looked most extra unsuitable
in them parts on that sort of a day.

"I beg your pardon, sir!" says the little man, as he pulled himself up
just in time to keep from bumping.

Charley bowed handsome--there was no ketching off Santa Fe when it
come to slinging good manners, his being that gentlemanly he could
a-give points to a New York bar-keep--and says back: "Sir, I beg
yours! Heedlessness is my besetting sin. The fault is mine!" And then
he said, keeping on talking the toney way he knowed how to: "I trust,
sir, that you are not incommoded by the he