He could not tell why he did so, but he now went back through the car, and as he was passing the old merchant’s section the head engine, which was wearing a pilot plough, screamed for brakes, and the train came to a dead stop. “Anything wrong?” asked the traveller. “Oh! no,” said McGuire cheerfully, “just a little skiff o’ snow.” Now, he had made up his mind not to look into the eyes of the girl again, but when she leaned over and asked, with just the sweetest, distressing little scare in her voice, if there were any wolves about, he had to look. “No,” he said, “there are no wolves in these mountains to speak of,” and he smiled a smile that was almost sad. “Nor Indians?” said the sweet voice, a trifle clearer. “Nor Indians,” said McGuire, shaking his head. “They’re dreadful on the Ouray branch.” “Which, the wolves or the Indians?” “Both,” she replied. “A gentleman told us, there where we stopped so long, that they killed ever so many Indians coming down this morning. Mr. Bowen, I think they called him; he seemed to be one of the officials of the road, so I’m sure he would not say anything to frighten people if it were not true.” McGuire was boiling. He might have been tempted to introduce Mr. Bowen then and there, but at that moment the head brakeman came back to say that they were stuck fast in a drift a hundred yards from the little telegraph office at the foot of Cerro Hill. For nearly an hour they bucked and backed and bucked again, but it was of no use. The snow was growing deeper with each passing moment. Presently it stopped snowing and began to blow, and McGuire asked for orders to back down to Montrose again, but the despatcher would not let him go. Denver was hammering Salida, Salida was swearing at Gunnison, and Gunnison was burning the company wire over Cerro Hill, telling McGuire to get out. Finally the trainmaster lost his head, McGuire lost his temper, wrote his resignation and handed it to the operator, but fortunately the wires were down by this time, and the message couldn’t go. The section gang having cleared the siding, the train was now pulled in off the main line. Being assured that there were no wolves nor Indians on the right of way, Miss Landon came out with her father to see the sights. It was growing dark at the end of a short December day, and what with the flying snow and the screams and snorts of the engines that had been uncoupled and were now hammering away at the deep drifts, the merchant and his daughter were unable to hear the whistle of a snow-plough that was at that moment falling down from Cerro summit.