The
Negro porter had such a jolly voice and laugh that I talked to him whenever
I got the chance. Then occasional passengers occupied the seat opposite me
from town to town. They were much alike, all sunburned and loud-voiced, and
it looked as though they had all bought their high boots and wide hats at
the same shop.
The last traveller to face me was a very heavy man with a great bullet head
and a shock of light hair. His blue eyes had a bold flash, his long
mustache drooped, and there was something about him that I did not like. He
wore a huge diamond in the bosom of his flannel shirt, and a leather
watch-chain that was thick and strong enough to have held up a town-clock.
"Hot," he said, as he mopped his moist brow.
"Not so hot as it was," I replied.
"Sure not. We're climbin' a little. He's whistlin' for Dodge City now."
"Dodge City?" I echoed, with interest. The name brought back vivid scenes
from certain yellow-backed volumes, and certain uncomfortable memories of
my father's displeasure. "Isn't this the old cattle town where there used
to be so many fights?"
"Sure. An' not so very long ago. Here, look out the window." He clapped his
big hand on my knee; then pointed. "See that hill there. Dead Man's Hill it
was once, where they buried the fellers as died with their boots on.
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