Bess wrinkled her brow in perplexity. “Oh,” she said, “James has told me so many tales of the Indians and cowboys and all, that I scarcely know what to believe. Nevertheless, it won’t be long now before I shall have solved a few of the mysteries at least.” Davis began carefully to roll a cigarette, shaping it daintily with his thumb and index fingers; then poising it carefully between his lips, he sought a match in his vest pocket and excused himself, hoping to meet them both very often during the summer. Bess watched him as he slowly sauntered toward the end of the car with a look of inquiry. “I think I would like him better if he would look directly at one. Who is he, James? A cattleman or cowboy, or what is it you called them—oh, yes, squaw man?” “You’ll have to guess again, Bess. He is Dave Davis, the Indian agent of the Flathead Reservation. He is probably on his way to the sub-agency at Ronan.” She gave a little sigh in answer, and asked how long it would be before the train reached Selish. “I fear you are nearly worn out, James. You had better lie down and rest. It is now four o’clock, and at five you say we will reach the end of our train journey. It’s been rather long and tedious. How far away New York begins to feel, doesn’t it? Oh, I wonder if I shall really like it away out here in the West?” James quietly settled down for a nap, and Bess went on with her mental soliloquy. The West! What had she not dreamed of the West! Its wonderful mountains, so great and bold, rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, verdant with the towering pines, and again, white and softened by the crown of winter. In fancy she had seen their rugged sides caressed by crystal streams, and had stooped to drink where deer had splashed. Then forth stretched the plain, far into the blue horizon. On she dreamed, till the porter warned her it was nearly time for them to leave the train. Hurriedly awakening her brother, he hastily gathered together their numerous grips and boxes. So busily engaged were her hands that she had to blow the persistent wisp of hair out of her eyes. “For pity’s sake, Bess, can’t you pin that bunch of hair up?” “It won’t stay up, James. I get so annoyed at the old forelock that sometimes I feel like pulling it out,” and all unconsciously she repeated the motion, at which they both laughed. “Here we are, dearie, at last. I wonder if anyone will meet us. Come, let the porter help you off with a few of those bird cages.”