and greens new-born beneath today’s sun melted among them.  Around the doubling of the creek in the willow thickets glimmered skeined veils of yellow and delicate crimson.  The stream poured turbulently away from the snows of the mountains behind us.  It went winding in many folds across the meadows into distance and smallness, and so vanished round the great red battlement of wall beyond.  Upon this were falling the deep hues of afternoon—­violet, rose, and saffron, swimming and meeting as if some prism had dissolved and flowed over the turrets and crevices of the sandstone.  Far over there I saw a dot move.

“At last!” said I.

Lin looked out of the window.  “It’s more than Tommy,” said he, at once; and his eyes made it out before mine could.  “It’s a wagon.  That’s Tommy’s bald-faced horse alongside.  He’s fooling to the finish,” Lin severely commented, as if, after all this delay, there should at least be a homestretch.

Presently, however, a homestretch seemed likely to occur.  The bald-faced horse executed some lively manoeuvres, and Tommy’s voice reached us faintly through the light spring air.  He was evidently howling the remarkable strain of yells that the cow-punchers invented as the speech best understood by cows—­“Oi-ee, yah, whoop-yahye-ee, oooo-oop, oop, oop-oop-oop-oop-yah-hee!” But that gives you no idea of it.  Alphabets are worse than photographs.  It is not the lungs of every man that can produce these effects, nor even from armies, eagles, or mules were such sounds ever heard on earth.  The cow-puncher invented them.  And when the last cow-puncher is laid to rest (if that, alas! have not already befallen) the yells will be forever gone.  Singularly enough, the cattle appeared to appreciate them.  Tommy always did them very badly, and that was plain even at this distance.  Nor did he give us a homestretch, after all.  The bald-faced horse made a number of evolutions and returned beside the wagon.

“Showin’ off,” remarked Lin.  “Tommy’s showin’ off.”  Suspicion crossed his face, and then certainty.  “Why, we might have knowed that!” he exclaimed, in dudgeon.  “It’s her.”  He hastened outside for a better look, and I came to the door myself.  “That’s what it is,” said he.  “It’s the girl.  Oh yes.  That’s Taylor’s buckskin pair he traded Balaam for.  She come by the stage all right yesterday, yu’ see, but she has been too tired to travel, yu’ see, or else, maybe, Taylor wanted to rest his buckskins—­they’re four-year-olds.  Or else—­anyway, they laid over last night at Powder River, and Tommy he has just laid over too, yu’ see, holdin’ the mail back on us twenty-four hours—­and that’s your postmaster!”

It was our postmaster, and this he had done, quite as the virtuously indignant McLean surmised.  Had I taken the same interest in the new girl, I suppose that I too should have felt virtuously indignant.