dreaming had small enough
place in his busy life. His lot was a stern fight against crime, and,
in a land so vast, so new, where crime flourished upon virgin soil, it
left him little time for the more pleasant avenues of thought.

Inspector Stanley Fyles came to a halt at the eastern end of the long
platform. Miles of railroad track stretched away in a dead straight
line toward the distant, shimmering horizon. For miles ahead the road
was unbroken by a single moving object, and, after a long, keen
survey, the man abruptly turned his back upon it.

In a moment he became aware of a hollow-chested man hurrying toward
him. He was coming from the direction of the only building upon the
platform--the railroad office, or, as it was grandiloquently called,
the "booking hall."

Fyles recognized the man as the railroad agent, Huntly, who controlled
the affairs of his company in this half-fledged prairie town.

He came up in a flurry of unusual excitement.

"She's past New Camp, inspector," he cried. "Guess she's in the Broken
Hills, an' gettin' near White Point. I'd say she'd be along in an
hour--sure."

"Damn!"

For once in his life Stanley Fyles's patience gave way.

The man grinned.

"It ain't no use cussin'," he protested, with a suggestion of
malicious delight. "Y'see, she's just a bum freight. Ain't even a
'through.' I tell you, these sort have emptied a pepper box of gray
around my head. Yes, sir, there's more gray to my head by reason of
their sort than a hired man could hoe out in half a year."

"Twenty minutes ago you told me she'd be in in half an hour."

There was resentment as well as distrust in the officer's protest.

"Sure," the man responded glibly. "That was accordin' to schedule.
Guess Ananias must have been the fellow who invented schedules for
local freights."

The toe of Fyles's well-polished riding-boot tapped the superheated
platform.

His gray eyes suddenly fixed and held the ironical eyes of the other.

"See here, Huntly," he said at last, in that tone of quiet authority
which never deserted him for long. "I can rely on that? There's
nothing to stop her by the way--now? Nothing at all?"

But the agent shook his head, and his eyes still shone with their
ironical light.

"I'd say the prophet business petered out miser'bly nigh two thousand
years ago. I wouldn't say this dogone prairie 'ud be the best place
to start resurrectin' it. No, sir! There's too many chances for
that--seein' w