The Denver Express | Page 5

"Wa'al Foster," said he, "kind o' 'close call' for yer, warn't it? Guess
yer'd better be gittin' up an' gittin' pretty lively. The train boys will take
yer through an' yer kin come back when this racket's worked out."
Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to the window and looked
out. On a small mesa, or elevated plateau, commanding the path to the
railroad, he saw a number of men with rifles.
"Just as I expected," said he. "Sam, ask one of the boys to go down to

the track and, when the train arrives, tell the conductor to come here."
In a few minutes the whistle was heard and the conductor entered the
building. Receiving his instructions, he returned, and immediately on
engine, tender, and platform appeared the trainmen, with their rifles
covering the group on the bluff. Sinclair put on his hat.
"Now, Foster," said he, "we have no time to lose. Take Sam's arm and
mine, and walk between us."
The trio left the building and walked deliberately to the railroad. Not a
word was spoken. Besides the men in sight on the train, two behind the
window-blinds of the one passenger coach, and imseen, kept their
fingers on the triggers of their repeating carbines. It seemed a long time,
counted by anxious seconds, until Foster was safe in the coach.
"All ready, conductor," said Sinclair. "Now, Foster, good-by. I am not
good at lecturing, but if I were you, I would make this the turning-point
in my life."
Foster was much moved.
"I will do it, Major," said he; "and I shall never forget what you have
done for me to-day. I am sure we shall meet again."
With another shriek from the whistle the train started. Sinclair and Sam
saw the men quietly returning the firearms to their places as it gathered
way. Then they walked back to their quarters. The men on the mesa,
balked of their purpose, had withdrawn.
Sam accompanied Sinclair to his door, and then sententiously remarked:
"Major, I think I'll light out and find some of the boys. You ain't got no
call to know anything about it, but I allow it's about time them cusses
was bounced."
Three nights after this, a powerful party of Vigilantes, stern and
inexorable, made a raid on all the gambling dens, broke the tables and
apparatus, and conducted the men to a distance from the town, where

they left them with an emphatic and concise warning as to the
consequences of any attempt to return. An exception was made in Jeff
Johnson's cases--but only for the sake of his daughter--for it was found
that many a "little game" had been carried on in his house.
Ere long he found it convenient to sell his business and retire to a town
some miles to the eastward, where the railroad influence was not as
strong as at Barker's. At about this time, Sinclair made his
arrangements to go to New York, with the pleasant prospect of
marrying the young lady in Fifth Avenue. In due time he arrived at
Barker's with his young and charming wife and remained for some days.
The changes were astounding. Commonplace respectability had
replaced abnormal lawlessness. A neat station stood where had been the
rough contractor's buildings. At a new "Windsor" (or was it
"Brunswick"?) the performance of the kitchen contrasted sadly (alas!
how common is such contrast in these regions) with the promise of the
menu. There was a tawdry theatre yclept "Academy of Music," and
there was not much to choose in the way of ugliness between two
"meeting-houses."
"Upon my word, my dear," said Sinclair to his wife, "I ought to be
ashamed to say it, but I prefer Barker's au naturel."
One evening, just before the young people left the town, and as Mrs.
Sinclair sat alone in her room, the frowsy waitress announced "a lady,"
and was requested to bid her enter. A woman came with timid mien
into the room, sat down, as invited, and removed her veil. Of course the
young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle of
Barker's, but her husband would have noticed at a glance how greatly
she was changed from the girl who walked with Foster past the
engineers' quarters. It would be hard to find a more striking contrast
than was presented by the two women as they sat facing each other: the
one in the flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed; the
other still retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but pale and
haggard, with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air of
humiliation.
"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, "you do not know me, nor the like

of me. I've got no right to speak to you, but