lusion, and brooded in the background, as
the long, transcontinental train began to bang over the frogs and
switches as it made its entrance into Denver. Fairchild went through
the long chute and to a ticket window of the Union Station.

"When can I get a train for Ohadi?"

The ticket seller smiled. "You can't get one."

"But the map shows that a railroad runs there--"

"Ran there, you mean," chaffed the clerk.

"The best you can do is get to Forks Creek and walk the rest of the
way. That's a narrow-gauge line, and Clear Creek 's been on a rampage.
It took out about two hundred feet of trestle, and there won't be a
train into Ohadi for a week."

The disappointment on Fairchild's face was more than apparent, almost
boyish in its depression. The ticket seller leaned closer to the
wicket.

"Stranger out here?"

"Very much of one."

"In a hurry to get to Ohadi?"

"Yes."

"Then you can go uptown and hire a taxi--they 've got big cars for
mountain work and there are good roads all the way. It 'll cost
fifteen or twenty dollars. Or--"

Fairchild smiled. "Give me the other system if you 've got one. I 'm
not terribly long on cash--for taxis."

"Certainly. I was just going to tell you about it. No use spending
that money if you 've got a little pep, and it is n't a matter of life
or death. Go up to the Central Loop--anybody can direct you--and catch
a street car for Golden. That eats up fifteen miles and leaves just
twenty-three miles more. Then ask somebody to point out the road over
Mount Lookout. Machines go along there every few minutes--no trouble
at all to catch a ride. You 'll be in Ohadi in no time."

Fairchild obeyed the instructions, and in the baggage room rechecked
his trunk to follow him, lightening his traveling bag at the same time
until it carried only necessities. A luncheon, then the street car.
Three quarters of an hour later, he began the five-mile trudge up the
broad, smooth, carefully groomed automobile highway which masters Mount
Lookout. A rumbling sound behind him, then as he stepped to one side,
a grimy truck driver leaned out to shout as he passed:

"Want a lift? Hop on! Can't stop--too much grade."

A running leap, and Fairchild seated himself on the tailboard of the
truck, swinging his legs and looking out over the fading plains as the
truck roared and clattered upward along the twisting mountain road.

Higher, higher, while the truck labored along the grade,