At Denver there was an influx of passengers into thecoaches on the eastbound B. & M. express. In one coachthere sat a very pretty young woman dressed in eleganttaste and surrounded by all the luxurious comforts of anexperienced traveler. Among the newcomers were twoyoung men， one of handsome presence with a bold， frankcountenance and manner； the other a ruffled， glum-facedperson， heavily built and roughly dressed. The two werehandcuffed together.
As they passed down the aisle of the coach the onlyvacant seat offered was a reversed one facing the attractiveyoung woman. Here the linked couple seated themselves.
The young woman’s glance fell upon them with a distant，swift disinterest； then with a lovely smile brighteningher countenance and a tender pink tingeing her roundedcheeks， she held out a little gray-gloved hand. When shespoke her voice， full， sweet， and deliberate， proclaimedthat its owner was accustomed to speak and be heard.
“Well， Mr. Easton， if you will make me speak first， Isuppose I must. Don’t you ever recognize old friends whenyou meet them in the West？”
The younger man roused himself sharply at the sound ofher voice， seemed to struggle with a slight embarrassmentwhich he threw off instantly， and then clasped her fingerswith his left hand.
“It’s Miss Fairchild，” he said， with a smile. “I’ll ask youto excuse the other hand； it’s otherwise engaged just atpresent.”
He slightly raised his right hand， bound at the wrist bythe shining “bracelet” to the left one of his companion.
The glad look in the girl’s eyes slowly changed to abewildered horror. The glow faded from her cheeks. Herlips parted in a vague， relaxing distress. Easton， with alittle laugh， as if amused， was about to speak again whenthe other forestalled him. The glum-faced man had beenwatching the girl’s countenance with veiled glances fromhis keen， shrewd eyes.
“You’ll excuse me for speaking， miss， but， I see you’reacquainted with the marshall here. If you’ll ask him tospeak a word for me when we get to the pen he’ll do it，and it’ll make things easier for me there. He’s taking me toLeavenworth prison. It’s seven years for counterfeiting.”
“Oh！” said the girl， with a deep breath and returningcolor. “So that is what you are doing out here？ A marshal！”
“My dear Miss Fairchild，” said Easton， calmly， “I hadto do something. Money has a way of taking wings untoitself， and you know it takes money to keep step with ourcrowd in Washington. I saw this opening in the West，and—well， a marshalship isn’t quite as high a position asthat of ambassador， but—”
“The ambassador，” said the girl， warmly， “doesn’t call anymore. He needn’t ever have done so. You ought to knowthat. And so now you are one of these dashing Westernheroes， and you ride and shoot and go into all kinds ofdangers. That’s different from the Washington life. Youhave been missed from the old crowd.”
The girl’s eyes， fascinated， went back， widening a little，to rest upon the glittering handcuffs.
“Don’t you worry about them， miss，” said the otherman. “All marshals handcuff themselves to their prisonersto keep them from getting away. Mr. Easton knows hisbusiness.”
“Will we see you again soon in Washington？” asked thegirl.
“Not soon， I think，” said Easton. “My butterfly days areover， I fear.”
“I love the West，” said the girl irrelevantly. Her eyes wereshining softly. She looked away out the car window. Shebegan to speak truly and simply without the gloss of styleand manner： “Mamma and I spent the summer in Denver.
She went home a week ago because father was slightly ill.
I could live and be happy in the West. I think the air hereagrees with me. Money isn’t everything. But people alwaysmisunderstand things and remain stupid—”
“Say， Mr. Marshal，” growled the glum-faced man. “Thisisn’t quite fair. I’m needing a drink， and haven’t had asmoke all day. Haven’t you talked long enough？ Take me inthe smoker now， won’t you？ I’m half dead for a pipe.”
The bound travelers rose to their feet， Easton with thesame slow smile on his face.
“I can’t deny a petition for tobacco，” he said， lightly.
“It’s the one friend of the unfortunate. Good-bye， MissFairchild. Duty calls， you know.” He held out his hand fora farewell.
“It’s too bad you are not going East，” she said， reclothingherself with manner and style. “But you must go on toLeavenworth， I suppose？”
“Yes，” said Easton， “I must go on to Leavenworth.”
The two men sidled down the aisle into the smoker.
The two passengers in a seat near by had heard mostof the conversation. Said one of them： “That marshal’s agood sort of chap. Some of these Western fellows are allright.”
“Pretty young to hold an office like that， isn’t he？” askedthe other.
“Young！” exclaimed the first speaker， “why—Oh！ didn’tyou catch on？ Say—did you ever know an officer tohandcuff a prisoner to his right hand？”