John, the mail carrier, was our only connecting link with the great outside world. Three times a week he brought the mail. From the first sight of a tiny speck on the top of the distant hill, our hearts thrilled. I watched it grow larger and larger, until the two-wheeled cart stopped at the garden gate. With hands trembling with impatience, I unlocked the old, worn bag, which John threw on the floor.

I was the honorable Postmistress. My desk was covered with Postal Laws, which I almost learned by heart. I had the New England respect for the Federal prison, the place of correction for delinquent Postal employees.

One rule was absolute. The key of the mail bag had to be securely attached to the Post Office. My Post Office was a wooden cracker box, which held the mail for the few outside patrons.

The inspector of Post Offices arrived unannounced one day. He frowningly looked over my accounts, while I stood by in perturbation. Suddenly he caught sight of the key at the end of a long brass chain “securely attached to the Post Office.” He got up to investigate. The frown disappeared by magic, and a smile played around his stern mouth. He burst into laughter. I explained I was very careful to comply with all the regulations. He gave me a humorous glance—and stayed to dinner.

The papers on Monday evening brought us exciting news. A train on the U. P. had been held up at a lonely station, thirty miles from our ranch. All the Pullman passengers had been robbed and one man shot and killed. The hold-ups had escaped and were at large in the “country adjoining.”

“If they are in the country adjoining, they’ll come here eventually,” I remarked to Owen. “This ranch is a perfect magnet for all the questionable characters in the vicinity.”

Owen thanked me for the compliment and went out to the bunk house to interview Robert Reed, now in charge of the hay gang.

This Reed was an interesting fellow,—a natural leader of men, and so efficient that Owen had made him hay foreman.

When we had driven over to his claim to see him about working for us, Mrs. Reed came out to the buggy, wiping her hands on her apron.

“No, Bob ain’t home this morning,” she responded to Owen’s inquiry for her husband. “I reckon you’ll find him over ploughin’ for Maggie.” A statement made in the most matter-of-fact manner.

We drove over to another claim shack a mile or so from the Reeds’, where Bob was indeed ploughing for Maggie. To him, too, it was quite a matter of course.

The affinity problem in this country really appeared simple. Mrs. Reed evidently accepted Maggie as a natural factor in the situation, and her marital relations were not disturbed in the least, as long as Bob finished his own ploughing first. That woman was truly oriental in her cast of mind.

Maggie Lane’s mother and brother lived near at hand, also. One brother, Tom, was Reed’s constant companion. Altogether it was a perfectly harmonious arrangement.

The Lane family records were not quite clear. Acquaintance revealed that. They all seemed to have a penchant for leaving the straight and narrow path for the broad highway of individual choice. Obviously Maggie’s position did not affect her family, nor her social standing in the community.

Whenever I drove about the country without Owen, I took Charley with me on horseback. Gates were hard to open, and my team of horses was not thoroughly broken. Besides, there were always the possibilities of the unexpected on these lonely prairies. I called Charley my Knight of the Garter. When he knew in advance he was going with me, he went up to the bunkhouse “to slick up.” If it chanced to be summer, he emerged without a coat, his blue shirt sleeves held up by a pair of beribboned pink garters, a pair of heavy stamped leather cuffs on his wrists, and a heavy stamped leather collar holding his neck like a vise.

I suggested one morning that the collar might be uncomfortably warm. He met my objection with scorn.

“Hot, Mrs. Brook? Why, that ain’t hot. You see, the leather kinda ab-sorbs the sweat and makes it nice and cool.”

One day we were out to take the washing to Mrs. Reed. I had asked Bob to take it Saturday night, when he and Tom Lane had “gone over home” to finish that ploughing. I supposed he had done so, but when he came back on Monday, he said he had “plumb forgot it, but would take it next time.”

We had to pass through Maggie’s claim on the way. She was standing at her door, as we stopped to open the gate. There was no freshly ploughed ground in sight, and I idly asked if she had finished her ploughing.

“No,” she replied, “I kinda looked for Bob over Sunday to finish it, but I reckon he couldn’t get off. I wish you’d tell him to stop here the next time he goes home.”

We drove on, and I wondered what Maggie “reckoned” he couldn’t get away from,—the ranch or his wife.

I gave Mrs. Reed the clothes and I told her Bob had forgotten to bring them over with him Saturday. She looked at me curiously.

“Didn’t Bob work Sunday?”

“No,” I replied, “none of the men worked Sunday. Tom and Bob both said they were going home.”

Mrs. Reed frowned.

“Oh, I suppose Maggie had somethin’ she wanted him to do.”

Charley started to answer, but my look stopped him.

“I’ll have your clothes ready Saturday.” Mrs. Reed slammed the gate and turned toward the house.

“Gee,” said Charley, riding up close beside the buggy, “them two women’ll be fightin’ over Bob yet, if he ain’t careful. Why, that’s funny”—he looked at me questioningly,—“Bob wasn’t to Maggie’s, either, was he?”

“No,” I answered, “I was just wondering about that myself. Perhaps he went to town, instead.” A coyote ran out of a gulch. Charley with a whoop started in pursuit, and the entire incident passed from my mind.

We were going in to supper, when three men drove up to the door. Whenever strangers appeared, I always had a moment of uncertainty as to whether they were to be sent to the bunkhouse with the men, or invited to our own table. Instantaneous social classification is rather difficult when there are no distinguishing external signs. And it had to be done at the moment. The men asked for Owen.

We had no idea who they were, so our conversation during supper was limited to impersonal topics, such as the present, past and future weather, the condition of the range and stock—nothing calculated to offend the delicate sensibilities of a Governor, a ranchman or an ex-convict, inasmuch as our guests might come under any of these heads. Entertaining on a ranch is democratic in the extreme.

They went out with Owen after supper. From the window I could see four dim figures sitting on their heels by the corral gate, talking earnestly.

It was late when they drove away. I was putting up the mail, as Owen entered. His announcement drove all idea of the Postal Laws and regulations out of my head.

“Well, they’ve gone, and have taken Bob and Tom Lane with them.”

“Mercy! what for? Who were they, anyhow?”

“The Sheriff and two Pinkerton men,” he answered, gravely. “They have arrested Bob and Tom for the hold-up.”

“Owen,” I gasped, standing up so suddenly that the U. S. mail flew in all directions. “You don’t believe they were the ones, do you?”

“Not for a minute,” Owen answered, with conviction. “And I told them so, but it seems the men have bad records and the description fits them. ‘A tall man, with a Southern accent, and a short, slight, smaller man.’ So they arrested them.” Owen sat down. “It’s absurd. In the first place, they couldn’t have gotten to the railroad in time to hold up the limited. They didn’t leave here until nine o’clock, and in the next place, they went home.”

“But they didn’t.” I felt suddenly weak in my knees. “I took the clothes over to Mrs. Reed, and both she and Maggie were wondering why they hadn’t come.”

Owen looked at me in blank amazement, and then asked why on earth I hadn’t told him.

“Good heavens, Owen, I haven’t seen you a moment alone. And, besides, I never supposed it made any difference where the men went. Hereafter if the angel Gabriel comes to work for us, I shall insist upon knowing where he spends his nights. Really,” I began to laugh, “you know, if we ever leave this ranch, the only place we shall feel at home is in the penitentiary. None but people with ‘records’ and ‘pasts’ will interest us.” I was half amused and wholly excited, for even to have a speaking acquaintance with the leading figures in a hold-up and murder was something my wildest flight of imagination could have scarcely pictured a few months before. Owen was really serious.

“Well, I must say,” he shook his head and looked down at the floor, “it begins to look as though Bob and Tom might have some trouble proving they weren’t the men. It’s serious for them, since they weren’t at home. The description certainly fits them.” Owen took up the paper. “‘One man about five feet eight inches high, slender and light mustache, wearing old clothes and a rusty black slouch hat. The other man five feet ten inches tall, slender, short, black mustache, about forty years old, spoke with a Southern accent, wore an old black suit and an old striped rubber coat.’”

“Go on,” I said, as Owen started to put the paper down; “I want to hear it.” He read on:

“‘The men were supposed to have boarded the train coming from Denver, at a small station this side of Star. The Pullmans were on the rear. When the train stopped at the station, the Pullman conductor went out on the back platform and saw two men crouching in the vestibule. He told them to get off, but at that moment the train started, and they rose up, covering him with their revolvers. One got behind him, holding his gun against him, the other in front. They handed him a gunny-sack and made him carry it. In this manner they entered the body of the car.

“‘In the first car they got very little plunder, and pushed on into the next. As they entered the second sleeper, they met the porter, who was forced to elevate his hands and precede them. While they were engaged in robbing the passengers in the second Pullman, the train conductor entered, and was compelled to elevate his hands, with the rest.

“‘They paused at one berth and seemed very much incensed that the woman it contained was so slow in handing over her valuables. They swore and were very impatient. Suddenly, a man in the next berth thrust his head out between the curtains. He had a revolver in his hand and fired, but instantly another shot rang out from the robber in the rear, and the man sank back in his berth.

“‘After the shooting, the robbers appeared more nervous and hurried. When they had gone through the car, they took the gunny-sack and emptied the contents into their pockets. One of the robbers pulled the bell-rope, but evidently not hard enough, for the train continued on its way. Swearing, they compelled the porter and two conductors to stand out on the platform with them, covered by their revolvers, until the train slowed down at Paxton, when they swung off to the ground and disappeared into these vast prairie lands, which are so sparsely settled one can drive for a day without seeing a person.

“‘As soon as the train stopped, the passengers hurried to the berth of the man who had been shot, but he had been instantly killed.

“‘The Sheriff was notified, and a posse started in pursuit, but the robbers had vanished.’” Owen put down the paper, and we sat up far into the night talking it over.

Subsequently our ranch, our horses, and Owen’s opinions were freely quoted in the press. Bob and Tom were positively identified by the three trainmen as the hold-ups. They were retained a week in jail, and then suddenly released on “insufficient proof.”

Owen did not believe in point of time they could have held up the train, for he had talked to Bob that Saturday night until after nine o’clock, but everybody, including Owen, held them capable of it. The point was simply that they had not happened to be there.

Later Bob and Tom returned to the ranch, incensed at their arrest and detention, but no one ever learned where they were that memorable Saturday night.

Moreover, the men who held up the train were never found, and again one of those strange tragedies of the West ended in vagueness.

I was struck by the repetition of that phenomenon “A crime, a tragedy.” At first indignation and an earnest attempt to find the offenders and bring them to justice, then delay, and the whole affair shoved into the background by something newer.

Life here seemed to flow by like a stream at flood-tide. Who could stem that current long enough to catch those bits of human frailty floating on the surface, or follow them down stream to the sea?