The last spike in the western extension of the Sherman and Western was driven by no less a personage than President De Reamer himself. In the circle of well-dressed men about him stood General Carrington and a score of department heads of the two lines. The thirty miles of track between the La Paz and Red Hills was laid, without unusual incident, in twenty days--a brilliant finish to what had been a record-breaking performance. There was to be a dinner at the Frisco Hotel. Everybody knew now that General Carrington had promised to be there and to speak a felicitous word or two welcoming the new C. & S. C. connection. After the spike-driving, Mr. De Reamer, a thin, saturnine figure, could be seen moving about through the little crowd. Once, it was observed, he and General Carrington drew aside and talked in low, earnest tones. The reporters were there, of course, and to these the president was urbane. They had gathered at first about the General, but he had waved them off with a smiling “Talk with my friend De Reamer there. He deserves whatever credit there may be in this thing.” And next these keen-eyed, beardless men of the press bore down in a little group on Carhart, Tiffany, and Young Van, who were standing apart. Tiffany was the first to see them approaching. “Not a word, boys,” he said in a low voice. “Why not?” asked Young Van. “I don’t know of anybody who deserves more credit than you two.” “Not a word,” Tiffany repeated. “It would cost me my job. Mr. De Reamer’s crazy mad now because so much has been said about Paul here. I don’t care to get into it,--just excuse me.” The reporters were upon them. “Is that Mr. Tiffany?” asked one, indicating the retreating figure. Carhart nodded. “Is it true, Mr. Carhart,” asked another, “that he came out and fought under you at the La Paz?” Carhart smiled. President De Reamer was passing with Mr. Chambers and had paused only a few feet away. “There wasn’t any fighting at the La Paz,” he replied. “There is a grave there,” the questioner persisted. “How do you know?” “I rode out and saw it.” “Then you should have ridden back the length of the line and you would have found a few other graves.” The chief sobered. “You can’t keep a thousand to two thousand men at work in the desert for months without losing a few of them. I’m sorry that this is so, but it is.” “Mr. Carhart,” came another abrupt question, this time from the keenest-appearing reporter of them all, “What did you say to General Carrington and Commodore Durfee when you saw them at the Frisco?”