She caught Mrs. Sinclair’s hand, pressed it to her lips, and was gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, and he listened with much interest to her story.

“Poor girl!” said he; “Foster 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 year, 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 truth!  They’re going to wreck that train—­No. 17—­at Dead Man’s Crossing, fifteen miles east, and rob the passengers and the express car.  It’s the worst gang in the country, Perry’s.  They’re going to throw the train off the track the passengers will be maimed and killed,—­and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars!  Oh!  My God!  Mr. Watkins, send them warning!”