The door opened and the Governor stepped out on the platform, followed by his companions.
"I arrest you," the sheriff shouted, "all of you."
"But you can't,—you're in British Columbia," the men laughed.
"Let go, now," said the Governor, and a moment later the deputy picked himself up and limped back over the border.
IN THE BLACK CAÑON
One Christmas, at least, will live long in the memory of the men and women who hung up their stockings at La Veta Hotel in Gunnison in 18—. Ah, those were the best days of Colorado. Then folks were brave and true to the traditions of Red Hoss Mountain, when "money flowed like liquor," and coal strikes didn't matter, for the people all had something to burn.
The Yankee proprietor of the dining-stations on this mountain line had made them as famous almost as the Harvey houses on the Santa Fé were; which praise is pardonable, since the Limited train with its café car has closed them all.
But the best of the bunch was La Veta, and the presiding genius was Nora O'Neal, the lady manager. Many an R. & W. excursionist reading this story will recall her smile, her great gray eyes, her heaps of dark brown hair, and the mountain trout that her tables held.
It will be remembered that at that time the main lines of the Rio Grande lay by the banks of the Gunnison, through the Black Cañon, over Cerro Summit, and down the Uncompaghre and the Grande to Grand Junction, the gate of the Utah Desert.