with Susy; and yet how all this faded away, and they were again
upon a dazzling, burnt, and sun-dried plain! But always as in a dream!

More real were the persons who composed the party--whom they seemed to
have always known--and who, in the innocent caprice of children, had
become to them more actual than the dead had even been. There was Mr.
Peyton, who they now knew owned the train, and who was so rich that he
"needn't go to California if he didn't want to, and was going to buy
a great deal of it if he liked it," and who was also a lawyer and
"policeman"--which was Susy's rendering of "politician"--and was called
"Squire" and "Judge" at the frontier outpost, and could order anybody to
be "took up if he wanted to," and who knew everybody by their Christian
names; and Mrs. Peyton, who had been delicate and was ordered by the
doctor to live in the open air for six months, and "never go into a
house or a town agin," and who was going to adopt Susy as soon as her
husband could arrange with Susy's relatives, and draw up the papers! How
"Harry" was Henry Benham, Mrs. Peyton's brother, and a kind of partner
of Mr. Peyton. And how the scout's name was Gus Gildersleeve, or the
"White Crow," and how, through his recognized intrepidity, an attack
upon their train was no doubt averted. Then there was "Bill," the
stock herder, and "Texas Jim," the vaquero--the latter marvelous and
unprecedented in horsemanship. Such were their companions, as
appeared through the gossip of the train and their own inexperienced
consciousness. To them, they were all astounding and important
personages. But, either from boyish curiosity or some sense of being
misunderstood, Clarence was more attracted by the two individuals of the
party who were least kind to him--namely, Mrs. Peyton and her brother
Harry. I fear that, after the fashion of most children, and some
grown-up people, he thought less of the steady kindness of Mr. Peyton
and the others than of the rare tolerance of Harry or the polite
concessions of his sister. Miserably conscious of this at times, he
quite convinced himself that if he could only win a word of approbation
from Harry, or a smile from Mrs. Peyton, he would afterwards revenge
himself by "running away." Whether he would or not, I cannot say. I am
writing of a foolish, growing, impressionable boy of eleven, of whose
sentiments nothing could be safely predicted but uncertainty.

It was at this time that he became fascinated by a