“Came in the country about seventy-eight, I believe, and rode for the Bordeaux Outfit most a year, and quit.  Blew in at Cheyenne till he went broke, and worked over on to the Platte.  Rode for the C. Y. Outfit most a year, and quit.  Blew in at Buffalo.  Rode for Balaam awhile on Butte Creek.  Broke his leg.  Went to the Drybone Hospital, and when the fracture was commencing to knit pretty good he broke it again at the hog-ranch across the bridge.  Next time you’re in Cheyenne get Dr. Barker to tell you about that.  McLean drifted to Green River last year and went up over on to Snake, and up Snake, and was around with a prospecting outfit on Galena Creek by Pitchstone Canyon.  Seems he got interested in some Dutchwoman up there, but she had trouble—­died, I think they said—­and he came down by Meteetsee to Wind River.  He’s liable to go to Mexico or Africa next.”

“If you need him,” said the post-trader, closing his ledger, “you can offer him five more a month.”

“That’ll not hold him.”

“Well, let him go.  Have a cigar.  The bishop is expected for Sunday, and I’ve got to see his room is fixed up for him.”

“The bishop!” said the foreman.  “I’ve heard him highly spoken of.”

“You can hear him preach to-morrow.  The bishop is a good man.”

“He’s better than that; he’s a man,” stated the foreman—­“at least so they tell me.”

Now, saving an Indian dance, scarce any possible event at the Shoshone agency could assemble in one spot so many sorts of inhabitants as a visit from this bishop.  Inhabitants of four colors gathered to view the wolf-dance this afternoon—­red men, white men, black men, yellow men.  Next day, three sorts came to church at the agency.  The Chinese laundry was absent.  But because, indeed (as the foreman said), the bishop was not only a good man but a man, Wyoming held him in respect and went to look at him.  He stood in the agency church and held the Episcopal service this Sunday morning for some brightly glittering army officers and their families, some white cavalry, and some black infantry; the agency doctor, the post-trader, his foreman, the government scout, three gamblers, the waiter-girl from the hotel, the stage-driver, who was there because she was; old Chief Washakie, white-haired and royal in blankets, with two royal Utes splendid beside him; one benchful of squatting Indian children, silent and marvelling; and, on the back bench, the commanding officer’s new hired-girl, and, beside her, Lin McLean.

Mr. McLean’s hours were already various and successful.  Even at the wolf-dance, before he had wearied of its monotonous drumming and pageant, his roving eye had rested upon a girl whose eyes he caught resting upon him.  A look, an approach, a word, and each was soon content with the other.  Then, when her duties called her to the post from him and the stream’s border, with a promise for next day he sought the hotel and found the three gamblers