Part 34 (1/2)

”I have no idea in the world,” said Miller, ”except that we are old friends.”

”But did you never do him any great favor, Miller--any particularly great favor?” asked Carlin.

”No,” said Miller, ”I cannot think of any.” But after a moment's silence he added: ”By the way, come to think of it, I did do him a little favor once. I saved his life.”

”How was it?” asked Carlin. ”Why,” answered Miller, ”he and myself had a running fight with a band of renegade Indians. There were seven or eight of them at first, and we got them reduced to four, when one of them killed the broker's horse. It was a very close game then. It required the promptest kind of work. When the horse fell the broker was thrown violently on his shoulder and the side of his head and was too stunned to gather his wits together for a few minutes. I had a gentle horse, so sprang down from him and let him go. I got behind a low rock and succeeded in stopping two of the Indians, when the others concluded it was no even thing and took the back track. But the broker was ”powerful”

nervous when I got up to him. The worst of all was, I had to ride and tie with him for seventeen miles, and he was so badly demoralized that I had to do all the walking.”

At Reno Miller bade the others good-bye and took the west-bound train.

Carlin sent a dispatch to an Illinois town. Late in the night the east-bound Overland express came in; the body of Brewster was put on board, the three friends entered a sleeper and the long ride began.

CHAPTER XIX.

Following a long established habit our three travelers were up next morning shortly after dawn.

The train was then thundering over the desert northeast of Wadsworth.

Carlin noticed the country and said:

”This must be almost on the spot where poor Wright saw his wonderful mirage.”

As he spoke the bending rays of the rising sun swept along the sterile earth, and a s.h.i.+mmer in the air close to the ground revealed how swiftly the heat waves were advancing.

”It is as Wright said; the desert grows warm at once, so soon as the morning sun strikes it,” said Harding. ”Heavens, how awful a desolation.

It is as though the face-cloth had been lifted from a dead world.”

”Do you remember what Wright told us, about the appalling stillness of this region?” asked Ashley. ”One can realize a little of it by looking out. Were the train not here what would there be for sound to act upon?”

”Is it not pitiful,” said Harding, ”to think of a grand life like Wright's being worn out as his was? He met the terrors here when but a boy. From that time on there was but blow after blow of this merciless world's buffetings until the struggle closed in a violent and untimely death.”

”You forget,” said Ashley, ”that a self-contained soul and royal heart like his, are their own comforters. He had joys that the selfish men of this world never know.”

All that day the conversation was only awakened at intervals and then was not long continued. Not only the sorrow in their hearts was claiming their thoughts and imposing the silence which real sorrow covets; but the swift changes wrought in the week just pa.s.sed, had really resulted in an entire revolution in all their thoughts and plans.

It was to them an epoch. The breakfast station came, later the dinner, later the supper station. All the day the train swept on up the Humboldt valley. Along the river bottom were meadows, but about the only change in the monotonous scenery, was from desert plains to desert mountains and back again to the plains.

Night came down in Eastern Nevada. When they awoke next morning the train was skirting the northwest sh.o.r.e of Great Salt Lake and the rising sun was painting the splendors that, with lavish extravagance, the dawn always pictures there on clear days, and no spot has more clear days during the year.

Ogden was reached at nine o'clock in the morning, the transfer to the Union Pacific train was made; breakfast eaten, and toward noon, the beauties of Echo Canyon began to unfold. Green River was crossed in the gloaming; in the morning Laramie was pa.s.sed, at noon Cheyenne, and the train was now on a down grade toward the East. With the next morning men were seen gathering their crops; the desert had been left behind and the travelers were now entering the granary of the Republic.

Late that night the train entered Omaha. The usual delay was made; the transfers effected and early next morning the journey across Iowa, so wonderful to one who has been long in the desert, began. Ashley darted from side to side of the coach that he might not lose one bit of the view; but Harding sat still, by the window, hardly moving, but straining his eyes over the low waves of green, which, in the stillness of the summer day, seemed like a sea transfixed.

Carlin was strangely restless. He did not seem to heed the scenery around him. He studied his guidebook and every quarter of an hour looked at his watch. When spoken to, he answered in an absent-minded way; it was plain that he was absorbed by some overmastering thought.

Noon came at length, then one o'clock, then two; the train gave a long whistle, slackened speed, and in a moment was brought to a standstill in front of a station.

With the first signal Carlin had sprang from his seat and walked rapidly toward the end of the car.