DOWN on the desert the earth was warm and brown, but when the train had passed Grand Junction a few stray flakes were seen floating across the cañon. At Montrose, where they picked up a helper for the hill, the ground was covered with snow. Most of the passengers got out and walked up and down the long wooden platform, for the air was cool and bracing. It seemed that there must be some trouble up the line, for the conductor of No. 8 was hurrying to and fro with his hands full of orders that he appeared unable to fill. A couple of travelling men were threatening to sue the company unless they reached Denver within the next twenty-four hours; and other passengers were getting hungry. Jack Bowen, of the Ouray branch, was lying luminously to a dignified New Englander and his handsome daughter. Jack was the uniformed conductor of the Ouray run, whose elocutionary accomplishments had made him the envy of all the men on the mountain division of this mountainous railroad. They had ploughed up a tribe of Indians coming down that morning, Jack was saying, with his insinuating, half-embarrassed smile, and the pilot of the locomotive had been red with the blood of the band. “Look now, you can see the fireman cleaning it off,” he added, for the old gentleman was going to smile. Sure enough they could see the fireman with a piece of waste wiping the pilot of the Ouray engine. “And did you leave them where they lay?” “Sure,” said Jack; “couldn’t stop the most important run on the road for a few miserable Ingins,--dead Ingins at that. ’Sides, if we stopped we couldn’t get ’em.” “Was the snow so very deep up there?” “’Twant the snow,” said the conductor, smiling and consulting his big gold watch. “What was it, then?” asked the tourist, becoming more and more interested. “Well, it so happened that a band of wolves was at that moment passin’ down towards the Uncompahgre in search of food, an’ the moment they got scent o’ blood they pounced upon the prey.” The young lady caught her father’s arm and shuddered. “If there is anything a wolf rolls as a sweet morsel under his tongue,” said Jack, glancing at his watch again, “it’s Ingin fricassee, rare and red.” “Oh, papa!” said the young lady, “let’s go back to the sleeper.” “You see,” resumed the conductor, “it didn’t matter much, for this was a band of renegades--bad Ingins they are called,--who ought to have been killed some time ago. Their leader, Cut-Your-Hair-Short, was spotted by old Ouray, the chief, anyway. He wanted to marry Cat-A-Sleepin’, Ouray’s daughter; the old man kicked, and what you ’s’pose this Ingin, Cut-Your-Hair-Short, did?” “I haven’t the remotest idea,” said the bewildered New Englander. “Well, sir, he goes up to the old chief’s hogan--” “Bowen.” “Excuse me,” said Jack, “till I explain the orders to this young man. Yo’ see he’s new at the business, and I have to help him out occasionally to see--” “Bowen.”