ia is snowbound it is not so very much quieter, even in its
outer aspect, than at any other time; for the monotony of snow is no
more complete than the monotony of yellow-gray prairie. Even when, at
rare intervals, the snow covers the fences, it is no characteristic
landmark which is thus obliterated; no picturesque rustic bars are thus
lost to the landscape, no irregular and venerable stone walls. At the
best a prairie fence offers nothing more distinctive to the view than a
succession of scrawny upright stakes connected by wires invisible at a
few rods' distance.

One feature Sandoria boasts, to be sure, which lends a certain
distinction to the landscape at every season: namely, a long line of
cottonwood-trees following the course of a halfhearted stream known as
"the creek." The water-supply is but a grudging one, yet it has proved
sufficient not only to induce the growth of cottonwoods, but to raise
the tiny collection of houses known as Sandoria to the rank and dignity
of a county-seat. For who could doubt the future growth and prosperity
of a prairie town rejoicing in the unique advantage of a watercourse?

There is, however, in the modern scheme of things, one agent more potent
than running water, and that is the arbitrary, omnipotent, indispensable
railroad; and the railroad in its erratic course saw fit to give the
cold shoulder to the ambitious little county-seat, left it ten miles to
the eastward, and then went zigzagging up to Denver with a conscience as
dead as that of the corporation whose creature it was.

[Illustration: "A HALF-HEARTED STREAM KNOWN AS 'THE CREEK.'"]

Sandoria, unable to retaliate, took its reverses philosophically, and
straightway fell into a profound slumber, from which it is thoroughly
aroused but once a year. Once a year, in the depth of winter, the
much-injured county-seat asserts its rightful dignity; for once a year
the court convenes within its borders, and then the whole county becomes
a meek tributary to its proper head. With indisputable authority the
citizens of the two upstart railroad towns are summoned as jurors;
ranchman and cowboy from all the countryside make daily trips in the
service of the law to the neglected little county-seat, leaving, as is
but just, many a ponderous silver dollar in "sample-room" or "store." At
such times the visitors admit that Sandoria is a snug little place, and
the new frame court-house a credit to the county, only why did they
build a tow