The cosmopolite who knew Lost Trail was the type of man who is born to be a Kentucky colonel, and perhaps may have achieved his destiny before coming to this “No Man’s Land,” for reasons into which no one inquired, and which were obviously no one’s business.  They knew him here by the name of “Lone Tooth Hank,” and he wore what had been, in the days of his colonelcy—­or its equivalent—­a frock-coat, restrained by the lower button, and thus establishing a waist-line long after nature had had the last word to say on the subject.  With this he wore the sombrero of the country, and the combination carried a rakish effect that was positively sinister.

The scornful clerk introduced Mary as a young lady inquiring about some place in the bad-lands.  Off came the sombrero with a sweep, and Lone Tooth smiled in a way that accented the dental solitaire to which he owed his name.  Miss Carmichael, concealing her terror of this casual cavalier, inquired if he could tell her the distance to Lost Trail.

“I sho’ly can, and with, consid’able pleasure.”  The sombrero completed a semicircular sweep and arrived in the neighborhood of Mr. Hank’s heart in significance of his vassalage to the fair sex.  He proceeded: 

“Lost Trail sutney is right lonesome.  A friend of mine gets a little too playful fo’ the evah-increasin’ meetropolitan spirit of this yere camp, and tries a little tahget practice on the main bullyvard, an’ finds the atmospheah onhealthful in consequence.  Hearin’ that the quiet solitude of Lost Trail is what he needs, he lit out with the following circumstance thereof happenin’.  One day something in his harness giv’ way—­and he recollects seein’ a boot sunnin’ itself back in the road ’bout a quartah of a mile.  An’ he figgahs he’ll borry a strip of leather off the boot to mend his harness.  Back he goes and finds it has a kind of loaded feelin’.  So my friend investigates—­and I be blanked if there wasn’t a foot and leg inside of it.”

Miss Carmichael had always exercised a super-feminine self-restraint in the case of casual mice, and it served her in the present instance.  Instead of screaming, she said, after the suppression of a gasp or two: 

“Thank you so much, but I won’t detain you any longer.  Your information makes Lost Trail even more interesting than I had expected.”

Besides, Miss Carmichael had a faint suspicion that this might be a preconcerted plan to terrify the “lady tenderfoot,” and she prided herself on being equal to the situation.  The time at her disposal before the stage would embark on that unknown sea of prairies she spent in the delectable pastime of shopping.  The financial and social interests of the town seemed to converge in Hugous & Co.’s “trading store,” where Miss Carmichael invested in an extra package of needles for the mere excitement of being one of the shoppers, though her aunt Adelaide had stocked the little plaid-silk work-bag to repletion with every variety of needle known to