foothills of that sandy waste, they rode back to Seven Palms by a roundabout route. The sun was sinking, the rose and gold wonder of the skies reflected on snow and glistening sand, when finally they headed for the village.
“If only I could find a novel setting for the final love scene,” sighed the girl.
“Whose final love scene?”
“The cowpuncher’s and the poor little rich girl’s. So many times they’ve just wandered off into the sunset, hand in hand. Really need a little more kick in it than that.”
Eden heard a clank as of a horse’s hoofs on steel. His mount stumbled, and he reined it in sharply.
“What in Sam Hill’s that?” he asked.
“Oh—that! It’s one of the half-buried rails of the old branch road—a memento of a dream that never came true. Years ago they started to build a town over there under those cottonwoods, and the railroad laid down fifteen miles of track from the main line. A busy metropolis of the desert—that’s what they meant it to be—and there’s just one little old ruined house standing today. But that was the time of Great Expectations. They brought out crowds of people, and sold six hundred lots one hectic afternoon.”
“And the railroad?”
“Ran just one train—and stopped. All they had was an engine and two old street-cars brought down from San Francisco. One of the cars has been demolished and the timber carried away, but the wreck of the other is still standing not far from here.”
Presently they mounted a ridge, and Bob Eden cried, “What do you know about that?”
