Sinclair looked him in the face, puzzled
for a moment.
"Don't you remember Foster?" asked the man.
"Of course I do," replied Sinclair. "For a moment I could not place you.
Where have you been and what have you been doing?"
"Oh," replied Foster, laughing, "I've braced up and turned over a new
leaf. I'm a respectable member of society, have a place in the express
company, and am going to Denver to take charge."
"I am very glad to hear it, and you must tell me your story when we have
had our breakfast."
The pretty young woman was just about to ask who Foster was, when the
speed of the train slackened, and the brakeman opened the door of the
car and cried out in stentorian tones:
"Pawnee Junction; twenty minutes for refreshments!"
* * * * *
II.
When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold excitement broke out, more than
twenty years ago, and people painted "PIKE'S PEAK OR BUST" on the
canvas covers of their wagons and started for the diggings, they
established a "trail" or "trace" leading in a south-westerly direction
from the old one to California.
At a certain point on this trail a frontiersman named Barker built a
forlorn ranch-house and _corral_, and offered what is conventionally
called "entertainment for man and beast."
For years he lived there, dividing his time between fighting the Indians
and feeding the passing emigrants and their stock.
Pages:
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43