Soon I rode from Red Buttes to Sweetwater, a distance of seventy-six miles.

Road-agents and Indians infested this country.

I never was quite sure when I started out when I should reach my destination, or whether I should never reach it at all.
One day I galloped into the station at Three Crossings to find that my relief had been killed in a drunken row the night before.

There was no one to take his place.

His route was eighty-five miles across country to the west.