At one of the stations a whole band of Indians climbed into the train with guttural war-whoops and invaded the baggage-car.  We thought we were being “held up,” but they behaved themselves very well.  The thought of Buffalo Bill, to say nothing of Mr. Holmes of Texas with his pistols, reassured us; and the only difference that the presence of the Indians made to us was that we avoided the baggage-car for our midday meal.

At another station a quantity of loafers, mostly Indians, smelling dreadfully of whisky, surrounded us and begged for money.  Among them an old Indian woman who looked like the witch of Endor (they said she was over a hundred years old) stretched out a long, bony, orang-outang arm, and when we gave her a few cents the old thing actually grinned with joy.  It was painful to see this creature with the accumulated look of greed on her withered old brown face.

Our baggage-master always kept his hat on, slouched at a tremendous angle.  We wondered how it could keep on unless it was pinned to his ear.  Mr. Kasson begged us to pretend not to notice it, because the man was very sensitive on the subject.  He told us his story.  The man had been fishing with some friends, near an Indian settlement, when the Indians attacked them and killed the others outright.  The baggage-master saved his life by “playing ’possum” (as Mr. K. called pretending to be dead), and the Indians scalped him with a broken tin can.  If he had made the slightest movement they would have despatched him.  How horrible!  We wondered if it could be true!

To-morrow “the distinguished party” mentioned in the paper are going to arrive at Salt Lake City.  I will write from there unless I am snatched up by some craving widower, if there exists such a thing as a widower—­or by some husband with too few wives.

* * * * *

A wild desire possessed us to sit on the cow-catcher in order to get a better view of the canon.  The engineer refused at first, but gave in at last.  He said it was most dangerous.

“You might,” he added, “scoop up a Chinaman, or some animal straying on the rails.”

“How exciting!” we cried.  “Who but a chosen few have the luck to scoop up a live Chinaman?”

Johan had the worst place, and therefore the least chance of getting the Chinaman.  He sat up on a little iron seat attached to the boiler, holding on to the piston for dear life, and every time the whistle went off—­and it went off very often—­he nearly did the same.  The fireman was obliged every other minute to whistle to frighten the cows away from the track.  We others were more fortunate, having only to balance ourselves and clutch our neighbor.  The least jar would have capsized us all.  The Chinamen working on the railroad gazed at us in wonder; but we did not scoop any of them in, nor did we get any cows.  The long tunnels were nasty and damp, and we were glad to breathe the fresh air again after having passed through them.  After a ride of half an hour we got off our cow-catcher at the next station, feeling rather proud of the bravoure we had shown, but, all the same, thankful to be safe and sound.