"Bet you get scalped goin' back," pleasantly remarked Johnny Sands, who had not fought in the Civil War, but who often ferociously wished he had when old Pop Westley was telling of how Mead took Vicksburg, or some other such bit of history. Pop must have been connected to a flying regiment, for he had fought under every general on the Union side. "You're on for the drinks, Johnny," answered Bill promptly, feeling that it would be a double joy to win. "The war-whoops never lived who could scalp Bill Howland, and don't forget it, neither," he boastfully averred as he made for the door, very anxious to get away from that awful gnawing temptation to open their eyes wide about his recent experience. "Then The Orphan will get you, shore," came from Pop Westley. Bill jumped and slammed the door so hard that it shook the building. He saw that his sextet was being properly fed and watered for the return trip, which would not take place until the next day. But a trifle like twenty-four hours had no effect on Bill under his present stress of excitement, and he fooled about the coach as if it was his dearest possession, inspecting the king-bolt, running-gear and whiffletrees with anxious eyes. He wanted no break-down, because the Apaches _might_ be farther north than was their custom. That done he took his rifle apart and thoroughly cleaned and oiled it, seeing that the magazine was full to the end. Then he had his supper and went straight therefrom to bed, not daring to again meet his friends for fear of breaking his promise to The Orphan. At dawn he drew up beside the small station and waited for the arrival of the train, which even then was a speck at the meeting place of the rails on the horizon. The station agent sauntered over to him and grinned. "I guess I will get that telegraph line after all, Bill," he remarked happily. "I heard that the division superintendent wanted to get word to me in a hurry the other day, and raised the devil when he couldn't. I've been fighting for a wire to civilization for three years, and now I reckon she'll come." "I always said you ought to have a telegraph line out here," Bill replied. "Suppose that train should run off the track some day, what would they do, hey?" "Huh, that train never goes fast enough to run off of anything," retorted the station agent. "She'd stop dead if she hit a coyote--by gosh! Here she comes now! What do you think of that, eh? Half-an-hour ahead of time, too! Must be trying to hit up a better average than she's had for the last year. She's usually due three hours late," he added in bewilderment. "She owes the world about a month--must have left the day before by mistake." "Johnny Sands says he raced her once for ten miles, and beat it a mile," replied Bill, crossing his legs and yawning. Then he began one of his endless talks, and the agent hastily departed and left him to himself.