The girl at Silver Thistle
Date: 2025-11-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Friendship -- Fiction; Girls -- Fiction; Railroad stories; Deserts -- Fiction; West (U.S.) -- Fiction; Accident victims -- Fiction

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Title: The girl at Silver Thistle

Author: Max Hale

Release date: November 4, 2025 [eBook #77180]

Language: English

Original publication: Elgin: The David C. Cook Publishing Co, 1919

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77180

Credits: Mary Glenn Krause, Terry Jeffress, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GIRL AT SILVER THISTLE ***

This ebook was created in honor of
Distributed Proofreaders’ 25th Anniversary.

The Girl at Silver
Thistle

By Max Hale

Published By

THE DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING CO.

Elgin Chicago New York Boston

Publishing House and Mailing Rooms, Elgin, Ill.

The Girl at Silver
Thistle

Copyright, 1919,
By David C. Cook Publishing Co.,
ELGIN, ILLINOIS.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX

The Girl at Silver
Thistle

By Max Hale

CHAPTER ONE

Though it was only five-thirty, supper was over in the yellow station-house at Silver Thistle. Nevada Buckley, singing as merrily as the nightingale, had put away the broom and the floor mop, in the regular task of helping her mother keep the little house tidy. Through the open window of the kitchen, came the staccato firing of a motor exhaust. Without looking at the clock on the shelf, the girl knew it was exactly twenty-eight minutes to six. Also and without looking toward the railroad, she knew that her father, Robert Buckley, had shut down the gas engine that pumped water into the big red tank. He was hauling out the “speeder” to make his regular evening run over the line to place the lamps in the block signals. Regularity and routine, even away out there on the desert, were things of importance at Silver Thistle. Nevada turned and saw her mother lay the last of the three sandwiches in her father’s lunch pail. The lid was clamped on. The girl picked up the pail and hurried out. In a moment she had skipped down the track and placed it in the hamper of the little car. Her father was seated and ready for the start.

“How is the tank, father?” she asked shouting her words in his ear so as to be heard above the loud firing of the motor.

“Plenty of water, Neva,” he told her. “You won’t need to start the engine this evening.” He had his hand on the clutch lever, and the car started forward as he shouted back, “but there’ll be a ‘Special’ through at six-twenty. Jim Fuson, who went through on Number Ten, told me about it. It will follow Number Sixteen.” He was gone then, with the speed of a rocket, straight toward the setting sun. As the “speeder” shot away, he waved a bronzed hand both to the girl on the track and to the one who stood in the door of the station-house.

“A ‘Special’!” said Nevada to herself. “I wonder what it could be? Father didn’t say—and Jim Fuson may not have told him. I wonder and oh, I hope it’s the private car of Superintendent Foster!” She spoke these latter words with an eagerness that proved a keen desire. Let it be said that in the life of those who lived at Silver Thistle, in the heart of the great Mohave desert, the “comings and goings” of the trains were events of importance. And “Specials” being out of the ordinary, were peculiarly so, for they, like all others, had to stop at Silver Thistle for water. And this gave the girl of the little yellow station-house an opportunity to catch fleeting glimpses of the dignitaries and officials of the road, the big men who traveled in private coaches, and who had servants to wait upon them. Famous singers, governors of states, and millionaires also traveled that way, and all of them had to stop at Silver Thistle.

It was not a great deal of notice most of these big or famous folk gave to the ruddy-cheeked girl at the lonely pump-station. And Nevada had only a fleeting peep at most of them through the polished plate-glass windows. Yet there was one who had noticed her. This one was a girl like herself—like herself in years only. For this other girl was not ruddy-cheeked, with arms and neck tanned brown by the desert sun and wind. She was, as Nevada caught sight of her, just a slender slip of a girl, with pale cheeks and big, appealing eyes. Nevada remembered those eyes, for they had looked through the wide window of the big private car straight down at her. She had even smiled, a sweet, kindly smile, when the desert girl returned her gaze!

That was a month ago, when the private car of Superintendent Foster, on its regular round, paused at Silver Thistle. Now it was time for the big car, with its brightly varnished body and shining brass rails to arrive again. Nevada wondered if the pale-faced girl, with the appealing eyes, would look out and smile at her again through the wide plate-glass window.

Hopefully and expectantly, she returned to the house, singing as before. She gave her mother’s glowing face a fond touch of the hand as she went through the door and passed on to her own room. Here she took down a book she had been reading, but she could not get interested in the story. Seated by the open window, she kept lifting her eyes to look down the railroad track of which the long lines of shimmering steel faded away in the distance. Silver Thistle, with its group of three tiny buildings and a water tank, was an oasis in the desert. Around the lonely station spread endless miles of yellow sand, broken only by clumps of gray-green mesquite. Away over on the border line—on the very edge of the world, it seemed, the Funeral Range formed a dim, zigzagged line between earth and sky.

Once, when Nevada raised her eyes and looked down the track, she saw a black dot appear at the end of the shimmering line. This dot seemed to dance about at first, as if playing with the heat waves; but it grew larger and steadier as the moments passed, soon resolving itself into the form of a locomotive trailed by a long line of passenger cars. Across the desert it came, its swift passage now marked by a rumbling roar, and hurling the dust in a long, thin cloud. When the musical tritone of the whistle reached her, Nevada closed her book with a snap and leaned out of the window. In less than a minute Number Seven, with a loud screeching of its brakes, slid to a halt at the water tank.

The huge, palpitating locomotive, its air-pump breathing hard, like a hound after a hard chase, halted but a few yards from Nevada’s open window. Out of the cab was thrust the gray head of Jerry Kerrigan. Though a pair of motor goggles, worn to protect his keen gray eyes from the flying sand, gave his face a grotesque look, it could not completely hide the jovial smile the veteran engineer ever had for the girl of Silver Thistle. The train stopped but long enough to take water. Then the great, black monster, trembling with the power of its mighty strength, leaned to its load, and moved forward, belching a cloud of smoke from its stack.

“Oh, say, Neva—” Jerry called back, “I almost forgot: The superintendent’s ‘Special’ is just behind us! And, say—his girl will be with him! Look for her!”

The train was gone, with a roar, leaving a smell of burned oil in its wake.

Singing again, even more joyfully, Nevada stood by the window, watching for the “Special.” There came another rumbling roar from down the track, followed by another musical call of a locomotive’s whistle, and a minute later the “Special” had come to a halt at the water tank. There were only two cars—a pitiful load it seemed for that great, high-wheeled engine. The rear car alone attracted the attention of the desert girl. Her eager eyes took in every detail, and a happy smile brightened her face when she saw the name, painted in gold letters on the side. She repeated the name aloud:

“Debue! Debue!”

While she looked, a girl came out on the rear platform, to stand for a while inside the brass railing. Behind her followed a portly, white-haired man—a man whose features and bearing portrayed power and purpose and leadership. Nevada’s heart fluttered exultantly, for the girl was the one who had smiled down at her through the wide window of the coach—and the man who stood near her was Superintendent Foster.

To Nevada’s ear came the joyful exclamation of the girl: “Oh, how lovely they are! I must have some of them. Please, father, can’t I have just a minute to pick some of them?”

Then she turned her big, appealing eyes to her father, and the superintendent with a smile, nodded his assent. “Go ahead, my dear! But be careful—and stay only a minute.”

Wondering what it was the girl had admired and wanted, Nevada watched while a porter opened the railing gate and placed a footstool under the lower step. The girl tripped down lightly and ran out across the right-of-way. Nevada followed her with keenly interested gaze. When the girl uttered another exclamation of delight, Nevada knew what it was that had attracted her. She was plucking the tall thistles—the long-stemmed, silver-plumed thistles that had given the isolated station its name.

She was plucking the tall thistles.

Nevada, too, had admired the silver thistles—admired them for their hardihood, their happy way of nodding their plumed heads in pleasant salutation when nearly all other growing things were dried up, blistered and burned by the desert heat. She was glad this other girl loved them and could see the simple, unadorned beauty they possessed. She had a big vase filled with them in her room, and another in the cozy living-room of the station-house. Had she only known—could she only have guessed, she would have gathered an armload of them and had them ready when the “Special” arrived. What a chance that would have been to get acquainted, to have received a word from the girl who had smiled down at her!

Just then, she heard a loud, shrieking cry. It came with startling suddenness, causing her to lift her head quickly and look out of the window. The first cry was instantly followed by another, louder than the first. The girl in the silver thistles was standing stiffly erect, holding a long, slender hand above her head. From her hand dangled a wriggling, twisting thing that fell to the ground while the desert girl looked.

“It’s a scorpion—a scorpion! She has been stung by a scorpion!” Nevada spoke aloud in tones of sympathy and alarm. The girl continued to scream while her father and the porter hurried from the car.

Nevada whirled swiftly from the window and out of her room. She knew that help was needed out there, and needed quickly. And she knew what must be done.

“Mother!” she called. “Mother—quick, hot water, ammonia, olive oil—the superintendent’s daughter has been stung by a scorpion!”

She was out of the house then, and running swiftly as a deer down the track.

CHAPTER TWO

Before Nevada reached the rear coach of the “Special,” the superintendent’s daughter, supported by her father, was taken to the car steps. Her wild cries had subsided, but she continued to moan with pain. She had dropped her load of pink-tinted thistle blossoms. Her face was ghastly pale. Her big eyes were filled with a strange terror. She wrung her injured hand incessantly, now opening, now closing her rapidly stiffening fingers.

“Poor dear! Poor dear!” said her father with affectionate sympathy. “Be quiet, Sweetheart—we will help you. Quick, Sam, up the step! We must make a fast run to Alcazar!”

Alcazar, the next town of any importance or size, where medical aid could be had, was one hundred miles away. It could not be reached, even by the “Special,” in less than one hour and twenty minutes. By that time the deadly venom from the scorpion’s sting would have done its fatal work.

Nevada Buckley heard the name of the distant town spoken and she guessed the intention of the superintendent. In his anxiety and alarm he had not observed the coming of the desert girl. But now she made her presence known, speaking to him quickly. “Please, Mr. Foster, bring her to the house. Mother and I know what to do. Don’t take her on until she is relieved.”

The superintendent lifted his head in surprise. Anxiety was printed on his usually serene countenance. “Are you certain?” he said. “It must be cared for at once. We can make a fast run to Alcazar—”

“It would take too long,” Nevada cried. “Bring her to mother. She is getting things ready now. We know just what to do. I was stung by a scorpion in almost the same way.”

Nevada drew closer and looked unflinchingly into the steady gray eyes of the railroad magnate. For a brief moment he seemed not only to be gazing at her, but sounding the depths of her very soul, measuring her ability, her sincerity. It was his way of estimating the worth of those whom he trusted. And this was the time when his trust meant more than ever.

“Very well,” he said in tones of finality. “We’ll take her to the house! Come, Sam, help me carry her! Easy now, easy, that’s the man!” The two lifted the injured girl and carried her between them. Nevada ran on ahead. Her mother had built a quick fire in the kitchen stove and already the kettle was singing. The living-room sofa was drawn out to a convenient position. Near it was placed a stand with a ready ammonia bottle, olive oil, bandages and a sharp-bladed penknife.

“Lay her here,” directed Nevada, when the two men entered with their burden, followed by other members of the crew, all offering their assistance, all eager to help. They waited at the door, their caps in their hands, while Nevada, with the deftness and sureness of a trained nurse, proceeded to remove the poison and dress the wound of the superintendent’s daughter. Their hearts went to their throats, brave fellows though they were, when the half-unconscious girl screamed with pain. Then her head dropped limp on the arm of her father, while Nevada worked on with swift-moving fingers.

“It’s out now, the worst of the poison is out!” she spoke assuringly, as she poured on the soothing olive oil and wrapped the injured finger with a broad bandage. “She will soon be all right.”

She brought cold water, the coldest that could be had in the station-house, dipped her cool fingers in the basin and rubbed them gently over the forehead of the unconscious girl. After a time—a very long time it seemed to those who anxiously waited—a bit of color came into the pale face, and the big, dark eyes opened wide and staring. They gazed first into the strong face of the superintendent, who began at once to talk to his daughter in words of happy assurance. Then they looked up into the ruddy face of Nevada, looked up, as they had looked through the window that day, in mute appeal, with real kindness and genuine sympathy. When Nevada smiled, the other girl smiled in return.

“Where am I?” asked the wounded girl in wonderment, as her gaze shifted from one to another of the group around her in the little room lighted by the red glow of the sunset. But now dusk was falling and Mrs. Buckley placed a lamp on the stand as Mr. Foster answered.

“You’re at Silver Thistle, in a house of friends,” he said. “This Little Doctor Lady has removed the scorpion’s sting, for which we are thankful.”

Nevada bathed the hand again, and this time the girl on the sofa gave her a happy look of recognition. “Oh, I know!” she exclaimed, raising her uninjured hand to the warm, round cheek so near her. “You are the girl at Silver Thistle. I’ve seen you. And I’ve wanted to meet you.”

Thrilled by the kindness and sympathy of the girl’s words, Nevada lovingly touched her lips to the outstretched hand, then took it in her own cool fingers and pressed it tenderly. It was the beginning of a real friendship, the welding of human hearts, and Superintendent Foster, big stern man that he was, looked on with eyes of understanding. He tried to speak, but a lump came up in his throat and choked him.

Just then the uniformed conductor of the “Special,” cap in hand, and carrying a brightly polished lantern, came in on tiptoe and touched the superintendent on the shoulder. “I beg pardon,” he said in low tones, “I merely ask for orders. We’re an hour behind now, Number Eighteen is behind us, and Number Eleven is waiting at Sand Ridge siding.”

“You’re right,” spoke the magnate quickly. During the past hour of anxiety and uncertainty he had forgotten everything save this one who was dearer to him than all else in the world—forgotten that he was a railroad man with a life of routine keyed to schedules, time tables and orders. “We’ve tied up the line, all right,” he added with a smile. “The road is probably wondering what’s wrong. No doubt they think that the ‘Special’ is lost in the desert. We’ll move on, Ralston, in just a few minutes.”

“Very well, sir,” the train chief responded, as he turned and left the room.

A tense silence followed the conductor’s exit, during which the superintendent’s gray eyes were held on the upturned face of the desert girl. She knew the meaning of that look, and her heart sank. It meant the magnate was making ready to go.

“My Little Doctor Lady,” he said finally. “I’m in a position where I feel I must take orders from you. How about it—may we move the patient? May we take her on right away?”

Might they take her away—this girl who had come into her life, whose kindness, sympathy and friendship promised so much? Nevada did not reply at once. She wanted the girl to stay. Already the superintendent had tarried an hour, a very long time for a railroad chief to tarry at a place like Silver Thistle. Nevada wished with all her heart that the girl might stay. But she would tell the truth.

“She could be moved safely,” she said at length, “for the poison is out of her hand, and the inflammation will soon leave. You can get a doctor and nurse at Alcazar. But if you would trust her with us—for a time—I would—”

Nevada hesitated. Though she had summoned all her courage to make this heart demand, she found herself unable to finish what was on her mind to speak. The superintendent’s gray eyes were sounding the depths of her being again. It was a big thing to ask of him, a bigger thing, no doubt, than was his custom lightly to grant. He kept on searching her, even when she ceased speaking. And when he turned his gaze away, he let it shift to Mrs. Buckley, then from one corner to another of the little room. He was measuring them, gauging them, that he might be sure.

Nevada, watching him, found no offense in his searching glances. She was filled with the spirit of the railroad, and she knew how much depended upon human faith and confidence. She begged only for an opportunity to serve, to prove herself a capable, trustworthy friend to this daughter of the chief. She looked down into the white face again, and was thrilled when the girl said:

“Let me stay, father, just a little while. There’s so much sunshine out here in the desert, and this dear girl and I will have such a good time—”

“Oh, yes, we will indeed!” Nevada brought in exultantly.

A happy smile came again into the face of Mr. Foster. “Very well, my dear,” he assented. “I will go on, and leave you here.” He turned and said to Mrs. Buckley: “I have known your husband for some time, by his record. There is not a mark against him. And I feel that I know him better since I have witnessed what his daughter can do.”

The little woman of the station house blushed proudly. He turned again to Nevada. “Little Doctor Lady, I’m going to leave my daughter with you for a week. It will require just that length of time for me to make the round. Remember that for real loved ones, I am alone in the world except for her. She is everything to me.”

“I am going to leave my daughter with you for a week.”

A tear glittered on his cheek as he stooped and kissed his daughter’s white face. “Good-by, Sweetheart,” he spoke in affectionate farewell. “Get well. Get all the sunshine you can. Be careful, and obey the orders of the Little Doctor Lady!”

She clung to him a moment, with her well hand, and then let him go. He rose quickly, erect and alert, a railroad man again. “Sam,” he spoke to the porter, “bring her suit case and luggage bag from the car. She will need nothing more!” As he went out of the door he called to the conductor, who paced restlessly back and forth. “All ready, Ralston,” he said. “Make quick time to Sand Ridge!”

Nevada, stooping by the sofa, with the hand of the girl pressed in her own, heard the shrill call of the locomotive as its five long blasts brought in the rear brakeman. Then the bell clanged, and with a mighty roar, as if impatient of the delay, the superintendent’s “Special” whirled away into the desert night.

CHAPTER THREE

For a long while Nevada remained by the sofa. Most of the time the injured girl lay dozing. As often as she opened her eyes she found herself looking into Nevada’s radiant face. Then a smile passed between them.

Trains went by, following each other rapidly, trains that had been halted and delayed by the “Special’s” unexpected stop at Silver Thistle. At eleven o’clock Nevada’s father returned from his run. She heard him roll the little speeder into the tool house, and a few minutes later came the sound of his thick-soled shoes on the floor. Mrs. Buckley met him in the kitchen and in low tones informed him of the presence of the superintendent’s daughter in the station-house.

Before retiring, Mrs. Buckley and Nevada moved the patient to the bed in the latter’s room. Nevada herself, took the sofa having moved it near the open door. With the lamp turned so low that it filled the little apartment with a soft, subdued glow, she prepared to keep watch through the night. Twice she dressed the injured finger, carefully and tenderly. She was pleased to note that the inflammation was much reduced and that the girl slept more quietly.

“She will be almost well of the sting tomorrow,” Nevada declared happily. “And we will have such a good time together.”

Nevada had never known the joy of close fellowship with a girl of her own age. All her life she had been without a playmate. She had never gone to school, even for a day. Her mother had been her teacher and companion, and the only home she had ever known was the station-house close by the railroad, always in some remote place. Her only acquaintances, the big-hearted men of the train crews who could not play with her, although they had ever been her devoted friends, bringing her sweets and toys, and waving their bronzed hands in happy recognition from the time she could lift her own chubby ones in response.

Now that a girl of her own age had come into her life, her cup of happiness was so full she could not sleep. As often as the patient moved, Nevada rose quickly, eager to render any service she could give. Late in the night the patient sank into a calm, peaceful slumber. Then it was that Nevada turned the lamp lower and went to sleep. When she awoke, the bright, dazzling sun of the desert was streaming in through the window. She heard her mother at work in the kitchen. From the pump-house came the irregular “Put-put Put-put!” of the gasoline engine as it labored vigorously in its work of refilling the deplenished tank. She knew by this that her father was up and at work. As a usual thing she was out in the tool house with him, or in the kitchen with her mother at this time of day. She heard a slight movement from the bed, and looking over, saw her patient sitting up.

“Isn’t it a lovely morning!” exclaimed the superintendent’s daughter. “And I feel fine. My hand does not pain me at all.”

“I am so glad,” returned Nevada. “I’ll bring you fresh water and you can dress at your leisure, that is, if you feel like getting up.”

“Oh, yes, I want to get up! I’m not an invalid. We must fill these days full, you know.”

The young guest thanked her hostess as she brought basin and water and then she added, “Just a moment, please. Before you go I want to ask your name. I haven’t heard it yet.”

“It’s Nevada,” was the answer, the radiant glow of the desert in her cheeks and the brightness of the desert stars in her eyes.

“Nevada,” the other girl repeated. “Nevada, a lovely name, and it fits you,” she said frankly. “And now I’ll tell you mine. It is Debue.”

“Oh, that is the name of your father’s car,” said Nevada.

“Yes, he named it in my honor,” Debue informed her.

“It is certainly a pretty name. And now that we are fully acquainted, you’ll call me Nevada, or ‘Neva,’ if you like, just as do father and mother and Jerry Kerrigan.”

“That will be lovely,” Debue agreed, as she sprang out of bed. “We’re going to have a big time together. And you will call me Debue.”

The “big time together” had its beginning soon after breakfast. The stipulation of Debue was that it must not interfere with the regular work of her hostess, and though the injured hand prevented her from giving much assistance, she did help Nevada with her household tasks. Then they visited the pump-house where the busy gasoline engine kept up its noisy chugging. They watched the coming and the going of the trains. They received letters, messages and bundles from men of the crew. They even gathered an armload of the pink-tinted thistle blossoms, plucking only those that stood away from rocks and sage clumps where the dreaded scorpions might lie in hiding. Before noon came they seemed as well acquainted as though they had always been together.

They received bundles from men of the crew.

Late in the afternoon, when supper was over, the dishes cleared away and Bob Buckley had gone out on his regular evening trip with the speeder to light the signal lamps, the two girls took a short walk into the desert. The sun had gone down behind the Funeral Range. The dazzling golden light of day was replaced with the subdued shades of dusk, shades that changed from crimson to lavender, from lavender to purple. The shimmering heat waves were driven away by a cooling breeze. The desert, with its vast, far-reaching border lines came out in clear outline. Distant sand ridges, buttes and ranges that could not be seen during the day, were now clearly visible. Desert birds, that had been hushed and silent through the hours of dazzling heat, now opened their throats and sang.

“I did not know the desert was so beautiful, and yet so vast and mysterious,” spoke Debue, as the two, walking hand in hand, reached the summit of a sand ridge a mile from the station. They had followed a dim trail made by Nevada in her regular wanderings. After crossing a broad, mesquite-grown mesa, they dropped down into a dry, shale-floored coulee, and then climbed the ridge beyond. Here they stood looking around them. To the utter amazement of the visitor, they had reached, in this brief time, a spot that seemed isolation itself. Silver Thistle, with its cluster of yellow buildings, the railroad with its line of telegraph poles and lifting semaphores, all were blotted out. It was as if the whole world were a desert, and they its only inhabitants.

“I can’t understand it!” exclaimed Debue in surprise. “We have not come far. The station must be right over there!” she said, raising her hand and pointing across the mesa.

Nevada laughed merrily. “You would miss it a long way, if you went in that direction to find it,” she said.

“Then I must be lost,” admitted Debue.

“Not exactly that,” Nevada corrected. “You’re confused a little in direction, that’s all. I had the same difficulty when I first came out here. This old desert is very deceiving to the eye, and this particular spot is especially so. The station is hidden behind that lifting sand ridge over there. When we dropped into the coulee we lost sight of it, and we made a turn in climbing up here. I call this my lookout, and I often come out here in the evening just to catch the spirit of the desert.”

They stood for a time, silently, held speechless by the wonder and awe of the vast arid waste around them. The world seemed a long way off. Then came a sound, a dull, distant rumble that grew louder and louder as the moments passed. Not until the musical tritone of a locomotive whistle lifted clear and distinct as a bugle call, did Debue realize that it was the sound of an approaching train.

“It’s Number Sixteen,” said Nevada, and then she added in tones of infinite meaning, “Do you know it has been almost a whole day since you came?”

“A very happy day it has been for me,” Debue told her.

“The very happiest day in all my life,” the desert girl added.

They turned from the ridge, and hand in hand, walked slowly through the growing dark toward the station-house. They were tired, both of them, and they made ready at once to retire. Again it was arranged for Debue to occupy Nevada’s bed, while the latter prepared to sleep on the sofa near the open door. Debue’s hand was dressed for the last time, Nevada assuring her the bandage could be removed on the morrow.

A few minutes after getting into bed, Debue was soundly asleep. Nevada put out the light and soon followed her into dreamland. How long she slept she did not know. Some time in the night she awoke with a start, and found herself sitting up, carried at once from utter unconsciousness to complete wakefulness. She looked toward the bed. The window curtain had been rolled to the top and the window left wide open. A silvery desert moonlight poured in. She could see every corner of the room, the white sheets of the bed, and the head of the sleeping Debue on the pillow. Nevada knew she was sleeping, by her long, regular breathing. Absolute stillness filled the station-house. In a vague way Nevada realized that a train had passed, yet she knew no train had awakened her. Something else had disturbed her sleep and she looked around with a feeling of alarm.

She got up and tiptoed to the clock in the living-room. It was a quarter of one. Her father had been home almost two hours, so it could not have been his coming that awoke her. Debue had not called or made any unusual sound. What was it, then? Some unusual sound had awakened her, of this she was certain.

She took a peep into the kitchen, then came back toward the sofa. Just as she entered the open door of her room, she was startled by a slight sound outside, a sound that seemed to come from near the window. She paused, peered intently in that direction and heard the sound resolve into a low, muffled tread. While she looked, the dark form of a man, stooping low, crept away from the house and moved slowly toward the railroad.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nevada first believed that the man who crept away from the station-house, and disappeared in the direction of the water tank, was a tramp. She knew that a freight train had passed not more than an hour before, after making the usual stop for water at Silver Thistle. She knew, also, that the train crews, out of regard for the people of the isolated station, as well as for the unfortunate tramps, allowed the latter to continue their journey unmolested. It was not likely a tramp would get off a train at a lonely pump-station in the middle of the desert.

Then who could this man be? Why was he prowling about the station-house at such an hour? These were questions for which she could find no reasonable answer. She stood a full minute or longer in the middle of the little room looking out into the night. The dark, stealthily moving form disappeared and no other sounds followed, no voices, no footfalls. As far as she knew, nothing had been disturbed about the station. Yet she believed the man had been in the room, had passed out through the open window, and that his going had awakened her.

She walked quietly over to the stand near the bed on which had been placed the jeweled wrist-watch, the gold necklace and the rings of the magnate’s daughter. The silvery beams of the moon fell with a reflected radiance upon the jewels. All were there, undisturbed, just as they had been placed the evening before. If the midnight prowler had entered the house, he had not come for the purpose of robbery, of this she felt certain.

Determined that the visit should not be repeated, she quietly lowered the window, fastened it, and dropped the upper sash to admit the cool night air. As she looked out again over the desert waste, there came to her sensitive ear a distant sound like the long-drawn call of a human voice. The call was answered immediately from a more distant point; then silence fell over the desert. Nevada knew the sound could have been made by a pair of coyotes calling to each other from neighboring sand ridges, and this thought, followed by a deep-toned rumble of an approaching train, drove away her fears.

She returned to the sofa and was asleep when the long freight train, drawn by its two thirsty moguls, stopped for a drink at the water tank. She was happily surprised on waking early in the morning, to find Debue already up and dressed, and the room filled by the sun with a glory-fire.

“I beat you,” cried Debue, her eyes sparkling, pink in her cheeks, and an eagerness and buoyancy in her every movement.

“I’m the lazy one this time,” her hostess admitted. “But I’ll soon be dressed.”

“I’m going to help get breakfast,” Debue declared. “I’m well this morning. There’s not a bit of soreness in my hand, and I can do work, real, sure-enough work now.” Debue spoke as if this would be the finest thing in the world. She gave Nevada’s round cheek a friendly pat and hurried out. A little later Nevada heard her tripping lightly to and fro in the little kitchen.

This day proved a happier one for the two girls than the day that preceded it. When the east-bound Limited halted for a drink, the gray head of Jerry Kerrigan was thrust out of the cab windows. There was a broad smile on the old engineer’s face when he tossed down the customary bundle and looked into two pairs of laughing eyes.

He tossed down the customary bundle.

“I’m almost glad it happened!” he said, when Nevada told the story of the scorpion’s sting.

“And we are, too!” the pair answered truthfully.

“But I hope it will not happen again,” added the engineer with a hearty laugh as he touched his gloved hand to the throttle of the huge engine. The long Limited moved forward, and as Jerry doffed his cap in farewell he called to the girls, “Have a fine time together!”

“We will! We will!” they answered.

The day went rapidly by, and so did other days that quickly followed, Nevada did not count them, because she wanted that week to last as long as possible. Only one thing troubled her and that was the visit of the mysterious night prowler. She thought at first she should report the matter to her father, but concluded it would only cause him unnecessary worry. For the same good reason she said nothing about it to Debue. When the opportunity allowed, she made an examination of the tracks in the sandy yard. It was this investigation that brought her the gravest concern. The tracks, she discovered, did lead to the window. Moreover, there were grains of sand on the sill, and on the floor of the room.

In view of this discovery she could form but one conclusion. The prowler had entered the house. But he had taken nothing. It might have been that her waking caused him to make an exit before any stealing could be done. He had left Silver Thistle, as he had undoubtedly come, on a passing freight train. Having reached this final conclusion, Nevada dismissed the incident from her mind.

She did not have cause to worry about it again until late in the week. As she and Debue were on the “lookout” beyond the coulee, watching the changing colors paint the desert in a sunset glory, her keen eyes, scanning a distant sand ridge, caught for a moment an object that appeared above the purple hazed clumps of mesquite. She looked at it intently, a full half-minute. An object, with the appearance of the head and shoulders of a man, stood up plainly, remained quiet while she looked, and then dropped down again.

What a lone man could be doing out there in the desert, and why he should attempt to hide, were beyond her understanding. She was at once reminded of that creeping night-prowler and her fears returned. She held her gaze so long and intently on the distant ridge that Debue became curious.

“What do you see, Neva?” she wanted to know.

“Nothing, at least nothing now,” Nevada answered. “I thought I saw something over there on the ridge. It has disappeared.”

In spite of her best efforts to forget the incident, Nevada was silent and concerned as they strolled back through the twilight.

There was one truth on the minds of both that brought a feeling of dismay. This would be their last night together! The week had gone by on swift-flying wings. And what changes that week had wrought. Debue had absorbed the spirit of the desert, the sunshine had fairly poured into her, browning her neck and arms and bringing a healthy glow to her cheeks. So attached had the two become to each other that it was with deep regret that they thought of parting.

Neither of them mentioned the parting of the morrow, but they were reminded of it the next day. Jerry Kerrigan, when the Limited came through, had a letter to deliver. “It’s from the chief,” he said, putting it in the extended hand of Debue. The kindly face of the old engineer wore an expression of soberness. “I really hate to give it to you,” he added. “It’s transfer orders from the chief.” He smiled then and the girls knew what he meant. It was a letter from Superintendent Foster, which, when seated on the kitchen step, Debue read aloud.

My Dear Daughter:

I was glad to get a good report of you today from Jerry. Your quick recovery speaks well for the little doctor lady’s treatment and the good desert sunshine. I shall expect to see a healthy coat of tan——and a few freckles wouldn’t matter.

This is to inform you, though, that the “Special” will be due at Silver Thistle at nine-forty-five, Thursday evening. Be ready to leave at that time. I have been lonely without you. Give my sincere regards and best wishes to your little comrade, and to her mother and father. Good-by, until Thursday evening.

Your devoted Father.

There were tears in the eyes of both girls when Debue finished reading. Kind as was the message, it brought upon them the realization that their time for being together could now be counted by hours and minutes. No comments were offered, none were needed. But hand in hand, the activities of the day were resumed with increased vivacity.

Sunset came again, and with it the changing colors of the painted desert, the cooling breath of night, the full-throated, ever-delightful melodies of the nightingale.

The girls had hoped to go together to the “lookout” beyond the coulee for this last evening together. But it so happened that Nevada had to operate the gasoline engine in the pump-house for nearly an hour after her father went out on the usual run. To avoid the possibility of missing the sunset glories, Debue concluded she would go alone, and wait there for Nevada. The two had been over the trail so many times of late that neither had any fear of losing the way.

“I’ll join you in half an hour,” Nevada said, “so go ahead, Debue. Just remember to swing round to the right after you cross the mesa and drop down into the coulee.”

“I’ll get there all right, even if I am a tenderfoot!” Debue said merrily as she struck out into the desert. From the pump-house door, Nevada saw the trim figure of her friend disappear in the crimson glow.

It proved to be three-quarters of an hour before the tank was filled. But with a true railroader’s sense of duty, Nevada did not leave until the gage indicated that the water level had reached the highest point. Then she shut down the engine, closed the door, tossed off the grease-stained apron that had protected her dress, washed her hands, and hurried out across the desert. The first purple shades of dusk were lowering. Night was not far off, and fearing that Debue would grow tired of waiting, Nevada quickened her steps. Nearly across the mesa, her pace slackened. She observed that the strong north wind of the day had blown new sand across the path, until in places the trail was completely obliterated. At the coulee, Nevada halted abruptly, and uttered a low cry of alarm. Debue’s tracks had disappeared!

Anxiously watching for footprints Nevada ran on until the trail came out plain again. Though she stooped and looked searchingly, she could find no fresh tracks to indicate that Debue had lately passed. She got to her feet, rigid and tense, and lifted a fear-filled face to the darkening sky. “Can it be possible,” she asked herself with a feeling of terror, “that Debue is lost—lost out here on the desert!”

CHAPTER FIVE

So intense was Nevada’s fear that Debue was lost, that she stood like one paralyzed. A score of terrorizing possibilities, connected with the mysterious appearance of that midnight prowler and of the man’s head that had appeared for a moment above the sand ridge came into her mind.

At length she started forward, then dropped again to scan the trail closely. It was getting dark now and tracks of any sort were hard to see, yet there were no new footprints on the sand-blown path. Then she made a trumpet of her hands and called and called; then listened intently. There was no responding cry. A breathless quietude settled over the desert. The nightingales were hushed. It was as if all living creatures of the vast sand wastes had gone to sleep. “Oh, Debue, Debue! Why did I let you go?” she cried aloud, but the great void around her brought no echoing cry.

She made a trumpet of her hands and called.

The rumble of a train, far away in the distance, reminded her that in a few short hours the superintendent’s “Special” would arrive at Silver Thistle. If Debue were not there to meet her father—it was too dreadful a thing to contemplate. She recalled the last words of the chief, spoken to her as he firmly gripped her hand and gazed into her face, “I leave her in your care. She is everything to me. I am going to trust you!”

To her belonged the true spirit of the railroad, which meant that failure of duty, failure to make good on a trust imposed, was an unpardonable sin. Tears streamed down Nevada’s face as she paced up and down the ridge, wrung her hands helplessly and shouted out over the desert. It was not that she lacked courage, but the thought that Debue was lost because of her own neglect all but overwhelmed her.

But she realized that she must go out into the desert and find her friend, who was possibly wandering in an aimless circle not a great distance from the “lookout.” She knew from the observations made of the trail in daylight, that Debue got off the path before she had fully crossed the mesa. The trail made a sweeping curve, of which fact Debue had probably never taken note. And, Nevada reasoned, when she got off the beaten path, she had gone straight ahead. On this supposition, she went back halfway across the mesa, then turned round and took a direct course from the coulee. She reached it fully a half-mile west of the regular trail crossing. The opposite slope was rough and broken with outcroppings of shale rock that still held the heat of the sun absorbed through the blistering day. Beyond were ravines, equally rough, but grown with straggling clumps of mesquite.

On the summit of the knob, when she had caught her breath, she again gave a long, shrill call. In the stillness of the desert the pounding of her own heart was the loudest thing she heard. Conquering terror, she started on again. Debue, she believed, would naturally have followed the ridge, but in what direction, was a guess. The “lookout” path turned to the left, so to the left she went, pausing now and then to shout and listen.

It had become lighter because the stars were brighter. But with a feeling of uneasiness, she observed that the handle of the Big Dipper was swinging up from the ragged hump of the Vermilion Cliffs. This meant that time was swiftly passing. Away off in the distance sounded the low rumble of a train. In less than two hours the superintendent’s “Special” would be due at Silver Thistle. The increased rumbling of the approaching train brought a new course of reasoning to her mind. Debue would undoubtedly hear it, and unless she was too badly confused, would take a course calculated to lead her toward the railroad. If she had wandered along the shale ridge, she would reach the track a mile or more west of the station-house. The possibility of this gave Nevada renewed hope and courage, and believing that she would come upon Debue either on some nearby sand-ridge or on the railroad, she started swiftly toward the tracks.

But at the farther border of the mesa she halted abruptly. The distant edge dropped precipitately, broken by a deep coulee. At the edge of this her startled eyes caught the twinkle of a light almost directly below her. A momentary glimpse proved the light to come from a camp fire built of dry mesquite boughs and sagebrush. Its glow revealed the rough, unshaven faces of three men squatted in grotesque poses close around. They wore the garb, with slouched hats and leather chaps, of plainsmen. Behind them, dimly outlined, were three horses, saddled and bridled as if ready at any moment for instant service.

Nevada, afraid that the men had heard her, dodged behind a mesquite clump and lay quietly. Her heart pounded like a trip-hammer. Her breathing seemed loud enough to betray her. From her position under the bush she tried to solve the mystery of the strange trio. Why were they there? Why had they made a long ride across the desert, miles from the main-traveled roads? Why were they hiding, and what were they waiting for? These questions repeated themselves over and over in her baffled mind.

Though she had no definite reason for thinking so, she believed the men were connected in some way with the night prowler at the station-house, and the appearance of head and shoulders she had seen above the sand ridge while she and Debue had stood on the “lookout.” With these thoughts came the dreadful fear that it was the presence of the magnate’s daughter that had brought them there. Almost unbelievable as it was, the possibility that Debue might be down there, bound helplessly, ran through Nevada’s mind. She had heard of the daughters of rich men being carried off and held for ransom. That such an evil plot should not be carried out with her friend, she resolved she would risk her own life, if necessary.

Discreetly Nevada decided to learn first if Debue were really down there, held captive by the trio. Crawling and using intervening clumps of mesquite to screen her approach, she moved quietly as a cat down the steep slope. Within twenty feet of the men a dry twig under her snapped with a loud, startling sound.

“What was that?” she heard one of the men exclaim in a coarse voice of alarm.

“Sounded like a mesquite a-poppin’,” another replied.

“Then there must be somethin’ comin’ down into the draw!” declared the man who had first spoken.

“Don’t get excited, Bill,” said the third man, assuringly. “You’ll need steady nerves if we put this job through.”

“Just the same, it pays to be careful,” the nervous one said.

The creak of leather chaps and the jingle of spurs conveyed to Nevada the information that the trio had lifted themselves from their squatting position.

She knew that those peering eyes were searching the surrounding growth, and that the ears of the three were listening intently. Her heart almost stopped beating, when from a distant ridge a long-drawn, tremulous cry came shrill and far-reaching.

“Now you ought to know what got on your nerves, Bill,” spoke one of the men with a low chuckle.

“A coyote, eh?”

“Yes, nothin’ but a coyote!” the other two declared positively.

“Them critters have mighty queer voices. Sometimes they sound almost human,” one of the three added knowingly. “Most of the time, on nights like this, they sound howlishly inhuman.”

Once more the girl under the mesquite heard the jingle of spurs. She took a long breath of relief, for she knew the men were again squatted round the fire. Her ears were strained tensely to catch every word spoken.

CHAPTER SIX

While Nevada listened, she again heard that long-drawn, tremulous cry. It seemed nearer this time.

“I tell you that doesn’t sound like a coyote to me!” persisted the nervous one of the trio squatted round the fire.

“Easy, Bill, easy!” one of the other two cautioned. “Keep your boots on. You ought to know that with the exception of that woman and the two girls over at the station-house, there ain’t another human being within fifty miles o’ here.”

Nevada took a quick breath. Debue was not held a captive, because the men believed that she was at that moment in the station-house at Silver Thistle. Her ears caught the words that followed.

“The superintendent’s girl is over there all right. I’ve seen her off and on for the past week. She and that desert girl have been scamperin’ about like a couple of young yearlin’s. I had to hang around purdy close in order to get the information I wanted. I know for sure that the ‘Special’ will come through tonight. And it’ll stop at Silver Thistle to git water and pick up the girl of the big boss.”

So it was the coming of the “Special” that caused the men to be there. But why were they waiting? What interest could they have in the private train of the superintendent?

“I was hid behind the pump-house when the Limited came through,” the same voice of the trio went on to relate. “I saw the engineer hand the girls a letter. It was from the big boss. Later on I heard the girls talkin’ about it. I know from what they said that the ‘Special’ is due here at nine-forty-five!”

Nevada now understood why that midnight prowler had been sneaking about the station-house, and why he had been spying upon them during the days that followed. The mystery was further explained by words that floated up to her from around the camp fire.

“I know positively that the paymaster’s car will be hitched on to the ‘Special,’” said another one of the trio. “I learned this by hangin’ around the telegraph office down at Sand Ridge siding last night. The division crews want real money for their pay, and there’ll sure be a big pile of cash in the safe. The job ought to be easy, once we get on the train. None of ’em will be lookin’ for trouble at Silver Thistle.”

Crouched under the mesquite, Nevada became tense as she learned why the men were there. They were highwaymen, lying in wait to rob the paymaster’s car. Theirs was a daring plot, artfully planned. She could see that all three of them wore leather belts, heavy with cartridges; all carried revolvers, and against a mesquite bush near the fire, leaned three rifles, their polished barrels glistening in the light.

Action, instant action, she knew would be necessary if the plot were to be frustrated. She guessed it was eight o’clock. In a little more than an hour the “Special” would arrive. The dreadful possibility that it would be met by a band of desperadoes, while the daughter of the magnate wandered, lost on the desert, drove the girl into a frenzy. With lightning speed she reviewed the various possibilities.

Could she, alone and unaided, within three-quarters of an hour, find Debue, and warn the approaching “Special” of its danger? It seemed utterly impossible, a task too great for one like her to accomplish in so short a time, but in her ears echoed the words of the superintendent, “I’m going to trust you!”

Her courage rose quickly. She would not fail in the trust that had been placed in her. Quietly, but swiftly, she crept away from the bush and up the slope to the mesa. Beyond the hearing of the men in the ravine, she got to her feet and started forward. But a little distance from the coulee she heard, for the third time, the long-drawn, tremulous cry. She knew now it was not the wail of a coyote. It was the cry of a human being in distress. It must be—yes, it must be the voice of Debue!

Nevada was driven frantic with the truth that it would be unsafe for her to answer the cry, and thus alarm the men in the coulee. All she could do was to rush onward in the direction of the sound. Several times she fell headlong. Her dress was torn by the thorny brush of the chaparral that grew along the rocks. Her arms, hands and face were scratched by thistles and pointed shale, but to these Nevada paid no heed. Her only thought was that ahead of her, in the darkness, wandered her friend, and she had to find her.

Finally she heard just ahead of her that long-drawn call, and standing on the crest of the ridge, a slender figure was plainly outlined in the starlight.

Joyfully she called as loudly as she could, “Oh, Debue! Debue!”

Down the ridge rushed the girl. For a time the reunited pair, laughing and crying, and speaking wild, incoherent things, remained locked in a fond embrace. Weak and exhausted they settled upon the sand still clinging to each other.

“What a silly girl I’ve been!” Debue said finally.

“It was all my fault. I should not have let you go out alone,” Nevada protested.

“But I should not be such a helpless creature,” Debue returned. “I kept wandering around,” she continued. “Finally I heard a train. Listen! I hear another one, away off yonder!”

“It’s the ‘Special’!” cried Nevada, leaping up. Instantly a course of action took form in her mind.

“It’s bringing father!” Debue said excitedly. “I had almost forgotten. What will he think if I’m not there to meet him?”

“We are going to meet him, Debue!” Nevada said. “We must meet the ‘Special’ before it reaches Silver Thistle—”

“Before it reaches Silver Thistle?” interrupted Debue in a tone of amazement. “I do not understand: What do you mean?”

“I mean just this,” Nevada answered, dropping her voice and looking around cautiously as if afraid of being heard. “In my search for you, I accidentally ran across some men who were in hiding down in a deep coulee. They have saddle horses and are heavily armed. They have planned to hold up the ‘Special’ when it stops at Silver Thistle. The paymaster’s car is attached to the train, and it is the money in that car they intend to get!”

“Oh!” cried Debue.

“But it must not happen!” Nevada added intensely.

“How can we prevent it, just two against a band of armed men?” Debue asked in tones of incredulity.

“We can do it and we must!” Nevada cried. “It is only a quarter of a mile to the railroad! We must run over there quickly—and warn the ‘Special’! Will you come with me?” Nevada put her face close to her friend’s. And Debue could feel the tenseness of her gaze—feel the warmth of glowing cheeks close to her own. The purpose and determination of Nevada renewed her courage. She felt at once more strong, more capable. A week before, she would have shrunk from the mere thought of such a thing. But a week on the desert, in the company of this courageous, red-blooded girl, had taught her many things. She lifted herself erect, filled with a new purpose. “If you go, I go!” she cried tensely.

“We must hurry! We haven’t a second to spare!” said Nevada starting down into the shale-strewn coulee, up onto the mesa, and across the sand, as fast as her feet could take her. Debue was but a few steps behind.

A mile west of the station-house a semaphore stood like a gaunt sentinel close by the track. At the end of its long drooping arm, as if grasped in a closed hand, reposed a muffled red light, which blinked its danger sign only at such times as the arm was raised. Nevada knew that that arm would not lift unless another train stood in the way. The thing she wanted was that red light.

On reaching the track, the girls were gasping as if their last breath were spent. Up the track a bright eye gleamed, and the growing thunder of the revolving wheels told that the “Special” was speeding across the desert.

“Quick, Debue, quick,” cried Nevada, as they halted at the semaphore. “Be ready to take the light when I hand it down!”

Nimbly, swiftly, Nevada climbed the rounds of the iron ladder, and then swinging out, reached and took the red lamp from its place in the lowered arm. The whistle of the “Special’s” engine sent a long call echoing across the desert. It was but a short mile away and coming on with a roar.

Nevada took the red lamp from its place in the lowered arm.

“Here, Debue. Reach up. Take it!” said Nevada as she reached down and dropped the lamp into Debue’s upraised hand. Then she let go and fell in a heap at the foot of the semaphore, but was on her feet again in an instant, took the light from Debue, and swung it back and forth in regular movements across the track. The headlight of the swift-approaching train was blinding to the eyes of the pair that stood directly in the middle of the track. The “Special” charged toward them, its speed undiminished, until it seemed as if it would rush on, unheeding. But the girls held their place, and swung the red light—swung it, until the two sharp toots of the whistle told them their signal had been recognized.

“Jump, Debue! Get out of the way!” Nevada cried as she took her friend by the hand and leaped into the ditch.

They fell headlong. The red lamp was hurled forward, while the great locomotive, hissing like some monster of the night, roared close over them. In its wake, followed the long cars with sparks flying from the tracks as the steel brakes bit the wheels. The “Special” slipped to a halt with the railed platform of the superintendent’s car directly over the exhausted pair. In half a minute, Superintendent Foster, anxious and wondering, followed the conductor down the steps.

“Something is wrong!” said the conductor in a tone of alarm. “We’re a mile from Silver Thistle. The engineer must have been signaled, but there’s no train near us—”

“We signaled you!” cried Nevada as she scrambled to her feet. One more step and the conductor would have stumbled upon them, but turning the lantern he saw the two disheveled, exhausted girls. Fast in his wake came Mr. Foster.

“Why, it’s Debue! And the Little Doctor Lady!” cried the chief as he sprang forward and took his daughter in his arms. “Bless me—what has happened?” he asked.

“Some men—are at Silver Thistle—to hold up the train!” gasped Nevada between breaths.

“Well! Well—if you are not a plucky pair!” exclaimed the superintendent. “Help me—let’s get them into the car. Warn McKenzie. We must run past the station and come back later. The fellows will know then that we suspect them!” he ordered.

The two exhausted girls were helped to a big leather couch inside the car, the “Special” moved on, and passed Silver Thistle with a roar. The three men in hiding, outwitted and alarmed, fled into the night. When the “Special” backed into Silver Thistle half an hour later, an anxious woman stood on the platform, near the station-house, wondering why the two girls had not returned—wondering, too, why the “Special” had rushed by. But the arms of Nevada were soon clasped around her neck, and the season of anxiety came to a happy termination.

Again the superintendent’s “Special” tarried at Silver Thistle for a whole hour, while impatient trains were held at stations along the line. Inside the little station-house quick consultations and portentous decisions were made. Mr. Foster spoke warmly to the father and mother.

“Your daughter is just the medicine my daughter needs,” he declared. “I never saw her look so well or so happy. You let us take Nevada east with us, and for her companionship she shall study at the Highland Academy with Debue.”

The girls look at each other, too happy to speak. Glad, half-wistful glances passed between Mr. and Mrs. Buckley. “It is what we have always wanted to do for Nevada,” smilingly spoke the little woman. “We shall miss her, but of course she may go!”

The two girls, forgetting their recent exhaustion, jumped to their feet and dancing and whirling around the room they joyfully cried, “It’s too good to be true!”

The End.

Transcriber’s Notes

- Illustrations relocated close to relevant content.

- Obvious typographic errors silently corrected.

- Table of Contents added by the transcriber for reader convenience.

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Table of Contents

- The Girl at Silver Thistle
- Contents
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- Transcriber’s Notes
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE