a funeral hearse and
mournin' coaches in that dogasted prairie sepulcher--Amberley."

* * * * *

Mr. Moss was disentangling the crick in his back for the last time
that day. His stomach had forced on him the conviction that his
evening meal was a necessity not lightly to be denied.

His back eased, he shouldered his hoe and moved off toward his shanty
with the dispirited air of the man who must prepare his own meal. As
he passed the lean-to, where his kindling and fuel were kept, he flung
the implements inside it, as though glad to be rid of the burden of
his labors. Then he passed on round to the front of the building with
the lagging step of indifference. There was little enough in his life
to encourage hopeful anticipation.

At the door he paused. Such was his habit that his eyes wandered to
the track which had somehow become the highway of his life, and he
glanced up and down it. The far-reaching plains to the west offered
him too wide a focus. There was nothing to hold him in its breadth of
outlook. But as his gaze came in contact with the frowning crags to
the east, a sudden light of interest, even apprehension, leaped into
his eyes. In a moment he became a creature transformed. His bucolic
calm had gone. The metamorphosis was magical.

In one bound he leaped within the hut. Then, in a moment, he was back
at the door again, his tensely poised figure filling up the opening.
His powerful hands were gripping his Winchester, and he stood ready.
The farmer in him had disappeared. His eyes were alight with the
impulse of battle.

Along the track, from out of the hills, ran four unkempt human
figures. They were rushing for the flag station, gesticulating as they
came. In the loneliness of the spot there was only one interpretation
of their attitude for the waiting man.

Mr. Moss's voice rang out violently, and caught the echo of the hills.

"What in hell----?" he shouted, raising the deadly Winchester swiftly
to his shoulder. "Hold up!" he went on, "or I'll let daylight into
some of you."

The effect of this challenge was instantaneous and almost ludicrous.
The oncoming figures stopped, and nearly fell over each other in their
haste to thrust their hands above their heads. Then the eager, anxious
shout of the gray-headed brakeman came back to him.

"Fer Gawd's sake don't shoot!" he cried, in terrified tones. "We're
the train crew! The freight crew! We bin held up! Say----!"

B