‘Well, sir, the old chief had vamoosed down the street in the shindy, and there was only the porter, looking tolerably parti-coloured. When Torin found himself inside, instead of out, as he’d reckoned to be, he just folded his arms and shut his head, and I guess neither of us ever felt like alluding to that incident. Whether the porter took us for devils or not, I can’t say, but he was tarnation civil, specially when he felt the end of Kinjan’s pistol. As we passed through a stone archway into a courtyard, the house began to hum, and we could hear the guard behind us hammering at the gate we’d just come through. Kinjan pointed out to the porter in Moorish, and shooting-iron, that we were going right up to the Sheikh’s bedroom. The unfortunate coon said he reckoned his head was feeling loose, and kind of wobbly on his shoulders, but if we would ascend the steps he pointed to, we would find the Sheikh’s private apartments at the top; we thanked him, and he said his head felt real loose; but we took him along and went right there. He played us honest Injun, did that porter, and may be his woolly top’s on his shoulders yet; but I’m not betting on that,’ drawled Mr Denver, compassionately; and he stopped, turning his head to gaze out of the window. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there’s the dawn.’ And sure enough, far away behind us on the eastern horizon, a pale salmon streak slowly lengthened and spread; between us and it on the dim prairie lay a still, murky sheet of water. In front of the train, in its western wayfaring, the young slopes of the Rockies rose shadowy and faint in the growing light. As we stepped out on to the car platform the shrill tragic cry of the loon came floating to us, through the wreathing mist, from across the reedy pools. We watched the sun rise--and those who are watching the sun rise on the prairie and the flushing of the early mountain slopes in the reflected light, are not greatly given to talk. But when it was over, I turned to Dick Denver. His brown, lean face looked drawn and haggard, and he shaded his eyes with his hand. Presently he raised his hand to his hat, and taking it off, stood looking long and steadily at the now risen sun, and his lips moved. If I hadn’t known him for a hardened and notorious sinner, I should have said he was muttering a prayer. The impression was so strong upon me that I waited to speak until he had replaced his hat. ‘Well?’ I said. ‘Well?’ he replied absently, his eyes still on the far horizon. ‘And then? What happened next? Did you see the Sheikh?’ I lamely jogged him. ‘What!’ his mind returned unwillingly. ‘You can’t in thunder want to hear any more after that?’ and he pointed eastwards. ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said, ‘but I most certainly do. I want to hear the rest of your yarn badly.’ ‘Oh! well,’ he said, resignedly, ‘I guess there’s mighty little left to tell.’ ‘The Sheikh,’ I jogged.