He turned out to be a very decent fellow. He was postmaster, section boss, and constable. He appeared at the jail in the evening with a big dishpan full of food⁠—bread, meat, butter, a fruit jar full of fresh milk, and half a pie. He apologized for having lost his temper and treating me so roughly, asked me if I wanted tobacco, and made a special trip back to his house for some old magazines.

I was surprised to learn that I had been arrested for trespass, or stealing a ride. He explained that the bums had burned a string of boxcars farther up the road and the company had sent out orders to arrest them on sight and give them ten days.

“It’s a wonder somebody along the road didn’t tell you about it,” he said. “You’re the first one I’ve seen for a month. The bums are all going over the Union Pacific now instead of the Rio Grande. It’s too bad, you’ll get ten days sure in the morning. Company’s orders. Good night.”