This recurring thought gave Carley all the pleasure she had felt so far in this endless ride.

It struck her that England or France could be dropped down into New Mexico and scarcely noticed.
By and by the sun grew hot, the train wound slowly and creakingly upgrade, the car became full of dust, all of which was disagreeable to Carley.

She dozed on her pillow for hours, until she was stirred by a passenger crying out, delightedly: "Look! Indians!" Carley looked, not without interest.

As a child she had read about Indians, and memory returned images both colorful and romantic.

From the car window she espied dusty flat barrens, low squat mud houses, and queer-looking little people, children naked or extremely ragged and dirty, women in loose garments with flares of red, and men in white man's garb, slovenly and motley.