Never before that moment had the scattering little one-story cabins of log and adobe seemed so small and insignificant, so unfit for human occupancy.

We were suddenly ashamed.
Dan Anderson, awaiting his fate, did not fly, but sat gravely on the log in front of Uncle Jim's hotel, and waited for the creaking, stage, white with far-gathered dust, to climb the last pitch of the road up from the arroyo and come on with the shambling trot of a pair of tired mules for the final nourish at the end of the long, dry trail.
He waited, and as the stagecoach, stopped, arose and walked steadily forward.

Another man might have smiled and stammered and nervously have offered assistance to the newcomers; but Dan Anderson was master of his faculties.
The curtains still concealed the tenant of the farther side of the rear seat, when there appeared the passenger nearest to our side of the coach,--a citizen of the eminently respectable sort, forty inches in girth, and of gray chin whiskers and mustache.

He was well shod and well clad; so much could be seen as he climbed down between the wheels and stood stamping his feet to shake the travel cramp out of his legs.
He looked thirsty and unhappy and bored.

A flush of recognition crossed his face when he saw the tall figure approaching him.
"Well, Andersen," Mr.Ellsworth said, extending a hand, "how are you?
Got here at last--awful drive.