ster is the man to help her. I wonder where he
is? I must inquire about him."

The next day they proceeded on their way to San Francisco, and matters
drifted on at Barker's much as before. Johnson had, after an absence of
some months, come back and lived without molestation amid the shifting
population. Now and then, too, some of the older residents fancied they
recognized, under slouched sombreros, the faces of some of his former
"crowd" about the "Ranchman's Home," as his gaudy saloon was called.

Late on the very evening on which this story opens, and they had been
"making up" the Denver Express in the train-house on the Missouri,
"Jim" Watkins, agent and telegrapher at Barker's, was sitting in his
little office, communicating with the station rooms by the ticket
window. Jim was a cool, silent, efficient man, and not much given to
talk about such episodes in his past life as the "wiping out" by
Indians of the construction party to which he belonged, and his own
rescue by the scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, and
talking with one of "the boys" whose head appeared at the wicket. On a
seat in the station sat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently
waiting for a train.

"Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't yer, Jim?" remarked
the man at the window.

"Yes," replied Jim; "they're for Engineer Sinclair, to be delivered to
him when he passes through here. He left on No. 17, to-night." The
inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the woman near him.

"Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a-comin' with him?" asked he.

"Yes, there's letters for her, too." "Well, good-night, Jim. See yer
later," and he went out. The woman suddenly rose and ran to the window.
"Mr. Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a few moments where no one
can interrupt us? It's a matter of life and death." She clutched the
sill with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized
Sally Johnson in a moment. He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter,
closed and again bolted it, and also closed the ticket window. Then he
pointed to a chair, and the girl sat down and leaned eagerly forward.

"If they knew I was here," she said in a hoarse whisper, "my life
wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tell you a terrible
story, and then I heard who was on the train due here to-morrow night.
Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hope
to die if I ain't telling you the living trut