pointing westward, there were sparks of
camp-fires; and still in other directions beyond the town other tokens
redly flickered, where overland freighters were biding till the morning.

Two or three miles in the east (Mr. Jenks had said) was his wagon train,
camped at the North Platte River; and peering between the high canopy of
stars and the low stratum of spectrally glowing, earthy--yes, very
earthy--Benton, I tried to focus upon the haven, for comfort.

I had made up my mind to accept the berth. Anything to get away. Benton I
certainly hated with the rage of the defeated. So in a fling I drew back,
wrestled out of coat and boots and belt and pantaloons, tucked them in
hiding against the wall at the head of my bed and my revolver underneath
my stained pillow; and tried to forget Benton, all of it, with the blanket
to my ears and my face to the wall, for sleep.

When once or twice I wakened from restless dreaming the glow and the noise
of the street seemed scarcely abated, as if down there sleep was despised.
But when I finally aroused, and turned, gathering wits again, full
daylight had paled everything else.

Snores sounded from the other beds; I saw tumbled coverings, disheveled
forms and shaggy heads. In my own corner nothing had been molested. The
world outside was strangely quiet. The trail was open. So with no
attention to my roommates I hastily washed and dressed, buckled on my
armament, and stumped freely forth, down the somnolent hall, down the
creaking stairs, and into the silent lobby.

Even the bar was vacant. Behind the office counter a clerk sat sunk into a
doze. At my approach he unclosed blank, heavy eyes.

"I'm going out," I said shortly. "Number Three bed in Room Six."

"For long, sir?" he stammered. "You'll be back, or are you leaving?"

"I'm leaving. You'll find I'm paid up."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir." He rallied to the problem. "Just a moment.
Number Three, Room Six, you say. Pulling your freight, are you?" He
scanned the register. "You're the gentleman from New York who came in
yesterday and met with misfortune?"

"I am," said I.

"Well, better luck next time. We'll see you again?" He quickened. "Here!
One moment. Think I have a message for you." And reaching behind him into
a pigeonhole he extracted an envelope, which he passed to me. "Yours,
sir?" I stared at the fine slanting script of the address:

Please deliver to
Frank R. Beeson