Every one is there for a purpose; to accomplish something; to get ahead in the world; to make a new start; perhaps to live down something, or to get out of the rut cut by ancestors; some may only want to drink, and shout, and shoot, but even these do it with a vim--they mean it. Of the many men who ran engines at the front, with me in the old days, I recall few whose lives were purposeless; almost every one had a life-story. If there's anything that I enjoy, it's to sit down to a pipe and a life-story--told by the subject himself. How many have I listened to, out there, and every one of them worthy the pen of a Kipling! The population of the frontier is never all made up of men, and the women all have strong features, too--self-sacrifice, devotion, degradation, or _something_, is written on every face. There are no blanks in that lottery--there's little material there for homes of feeble-minded. It isn't strange, either, when you come to think of it; fools never go anywhere, they are just born and raised. If they move it's because they are "took"--you never heard of a pioneer fool. One of the strongest characters I ever knew was a runner out there by the name of Gunderson--Oscar Gunderson. He was of Swedish parentage, very light-complexioned, very large, and a splendid mechanic, as Swedes are apt to be when they try. Gunderson's name was, I suppose, properly entered on the company's time-book, but it never was in the nomenclature of the road. With the railroaders' gift for abbreviation and nickname, Gunderson soon came down to "Gun," his size, head, hand or heart furnished the prefix of "Big," and "Big Gun" he remains to-day. "Big Gun" among his friends, but simple "Gun" to me. I think I called him "Gun" from the start. Gun ran himself as he did his engine, exercised the same care of himself, and always talked engine about his own anatomy, clothes, food and drink. His hat was always referred to as his "dome-casing;" his Brotherhood pin was his "number-plate;" his coat was "the jacket;" his legs the "drivers;" his hands "the pins;" arms were "side-rods;" stomach "firebox;" and his mouth "the pop." He invariably referred to a missing suspender-button as a broken "spring-hanger;" to a limp as a "flat-wheel;" he "fired up" when eating; he "took water," the same as the engine; and "oiled round," when he tasted whisky. Gun knew all the slang and shop-talk of the road, and used it--was even accused of inventing much of it--but his engine talk was unique and inimitable. We roomed together a whole winter; and often, after I had gone to bed, Gun would come in, and as he peeled off his clothes he would deliver himself something as follows: