When I awoke the next day, it was to see the sage ridges and red buttes of Arizona. We were due at Holston at eight o'clock, but owing to a crippled engine the train was hours late. At last I fell asleep to be awakened by a vigorous shake. “Holston. Your stop. Holston,” the conductor was saying. “All right,” I said, sitting up and then making a grab for my grip. “We're pretty late, aren't we?” “Six hours. It's two o'clock.” “Hope I can get a room,” I said, as I followed him out on the platform. He held up his lantern so that the light would shine in my face. “There's a hotel down the street a block or so. Better hurry and look sharp. Holston's not a safe place for a stranger at night.” I stepped off into a windy darkness. A lamp glimmered in the station window. By its light I made out several men, the foremost of whom had a dark, pointed face and glittering eyes. He wore a strange hat, and I knew from pictures I had seen that he was a Mexican. Then the bulky form of Buell loomed up. I called, but evidently he did not hear me. The men took his grips, and they moved away to disappear in the darkness. While I paused, hoping to see some one to direct me, the train puffed out, leaving me alone on the platform. When I turned the corner I saw two dim lights, one far to the left, the other to the right, and the black outline of buildings under what appeared to be the shadow of a mountain. It was the quietest and darkest town I had ever struck. I decided to turn toward the right-hand light, for the conductor had said “down the street.” I set forth at a brisk pace, but the loneliness and strangeness of the place were rather depressing. Before I had gone many steps, however, the sound of running water halted me, and just in the nick of time, for I was walking straight into a ditch. By peering hard into the darkness and feeling my way I found a bridge. Then it did not take long to reach the light. But it was a saloon, and not the hotel. One peep into it served to make me face about in double-quick time, and hurry in the opposite direction. Hearing a soft footfall, I glanced over my shoulder, to see the Mexican that I had noticed at the station. He was coming from across the street. I wondered if he were watching me. He might be. My heart began to beat violently. Turning once again, I discovered that the fellow could not be seen in the pitchy blackness. Then I broke into a run. III. THE TRAIL A short dash brought me to the end of the block; the side street was not so dark, and after I had crossed this open space I glanced backward. Soon I sped into a wan circle of light, and, reaching a door upon which was a hotel sign, I burst in. Chairs were scattered about a bare office; a man stirred on a couch, and then sat up, blinking. “I'm afraid--I believe some one's chasing me,” I said. He sat there eying me, and then drawled, sleepily: “Thet ain't no call to wake a feller, is it?”