It was a sad-looking little town, like all the rest—just a main street and a few stores and houses set down in the midst of the illimitable waste. Our train stopped there.
I saw a man across the aisle look out of the window, scowl, rise from his seat, throw up his arms, and exclaim, addressing no one in particular: "God! How can they stand living out here? I'd rather be dead!"
My companion and I had been speaking of the same thing, wondering how people could endure their lives in such a place.
"Come on," he said, rising. "This is the last stop before we get to Colorado. Let's get out and walk."
I followed him from the car and to the station platform.
Looking away from the station, we gazed upon a foreground the principal scenic grandeur of which was supplied by a hitching post. Beyond lay the inevitable main street and dismal buildings. One of them, as I recall it, was painted sky-blue, and bore the simple, unostentatious word, "Hotel."
My companion gazed upon the scene for a time. He looked melancholy. Finally, without turning his head, he spoke.
"How would you like to get off and spend a week here, some day?" he asked me.
"You mean get off some day and spend a week," I corrected.