* * * * *

Closing the desk, she climbed to her room on the third floor and knelt by the window.  Away out on the shrouded vale she saw the dark train creeping, a solid stream of fire flowing from the short stack of the “shotgun”; for Peasley was pounding her for all she was worth in an honest effort to make up the hour that Shanley had lost in the snowdrifts of Marshall Pass.  Presently she heard the muffled roar of the train on a trestle, and a moment later saw the Salt Lake Limited swallowed by the Black Canon, in whose sunless gorges many a driver died before the scenery settled after having been disturbed by the builders of the road.

Over ahead in his quiet car Cassidy sat musing, smoking, and wondering why Nora should seem so anxious about him.  Turning, he glanced about.  Everything looked right, but the girl’s anxiety bothered him.

Picking up a bundle of way-bills, he began checking up.  The engine screamed for Sapinero, and a moment later he felt the list as they rounded Dead Man’s Curve.

Unless they were flagged, the next stop would be at Cimarron, at the other end of the canon.

His work done, the messenger lighted his pipe, settled himself in his high-backed canvas camp-chair, and put his feet up on his box for a good smoke.  He tried to think of a number of things that had nothing whatever to do with Nora, but somehow she invariably elbowed into his thoughts.

He leaned over and opened his box—­not the strong-box, but the wooden, trunk-like box that holds the messenger’s street-coat when he’s on duty and his jumper when he’s off.  On the under side of the lifted lid he had fixed a large panel picture of Nora O’Neal.

* * * * *

Buckingham, peering over a piano-box, behind which he had hidden at Gunnison, saw and recognized the photograph; for the messenger’s white light stood on the little safe near the picture.  For half an hour he had been watching Cassidy, wondering why he did not fall asleep.  He had seen Nora put the cup down with her own hand, to guard, as he thought, against the possibility of a mistake.  What will a woman not dare and do for the man she loves?  He sighed softly.  He recalled now that he had always exercised a powerful influence over women,—­that is, the few he had known,—­but he was surprised that this consistent Catholic girl should be so “dead easy.”

“And now look at this one hundred and ninety-eight pounds of egotism sitting here smiling on the likeness of the lady who has just dropped bug-dust in his coffee.  It’s positively funny.”

Such were the half-whispered musings of the would-be robber.

He actually grew drowsy waiting for Cassidy to go to sleep.  The car lurched on a sharp curve, dislodging some boxes.  Buck felt a strange, tingling sensation in his fingers and toes.  Presently he nodded.

Cassidy sat gazing on the pictured face that had hovered over him in all his dreams for months, and as he gazed, seemed to feel her living presence.  He rose as if to greet her, but kept his eyes upon the picture.