My baggage was lost; it had not come on my train; it was adrift somewhere back in the two thousand miles that lay behind me. And by way of comfort, the baggage-man remarked that passengers often got astray from their trunks, but the trunks mostly found them after a while. Having offered me this encouragement, he turned whistling to his affairs and left me planted in the baggage-room at Medicine Bow. I stood deserted among crates and boxes, blankly holding my check, hungry and forlorn. I stared out through the door at the sky and the plains; but I did not see the antelope shining among the sage-brush, nor the great sunset light of Wyoming. Annoyance blinded my eyes to all things save my grievance: I saw only a lost trunk. And I was muttering half-aloud, “What a forsaken hole this is!” when suddenly from outside on the platform came a slow voice: “Off to get married AGAIN? Oh, don’t!” The voice was Southern and gentle and drawling; and a second voice came in immediate answer, cracked and querulous. “It ain’t again. Who says it’s again? Who told you, anyway?” And the first voice responded caressingly: “Why, your Sunday clothes told me, Uncle Hughey. They are speakin’ mighty loud o’ nuptials.” “You don’t worry me!” snapped Uncle Hughey, with shrill heat. And the other gently continued, “Ain’t them gloves the same yu’ wore to your last weddin’?” “You don’t worry me! You don’t worry me!” now screamed Uncle Hughey. Already I had forgotten my trunk; care had left me; I was aware of the sunset, and had no desire but for more of this conversation. For it resembled none that I had heard in my life so far. I stepped to the door and looked out upon the station platform. Lounging there at ease against the wall was a slim young giant, more beautiful than pictures. His broad, soft hat was pushed back; a loose-knotted, dull-scarlet handkerchief sagged from his throat; and one casual thumb was hooked in the cartridge-belt that slanted across his hips. He had plainly come many miles from somewhere across the vast horizon, as the dust upon him showed. His boots were white with it. His overalls were gray with it. The weather-beaten bloom of his face shone through it duskily, as the ripe peaches look upon their trees in a dry season. But no dinginess of travel or shabbiness of attire could tarnish the splendor that radiated from his youth and strength. The old man upon whose temper his remarks were doing such deadly work was combed and curried to a finish, a bridegroom swept and garnished; but alas for age! Had I been the bride, I should have taken the giant, dust and all. He had by no means done with the old man. “Why, yu’ve hung weddin’ gyarments on every limb!” he now drawled, with admiration. “Who is the lucky lady this trip?” The old man seemed to vibrate. “Tell you there ain’t been no other! Call me a Mormon, would you?” “Why, that--” “Call me a Mormon? Then name some of my wives. Name two. Name one. Dare you!”