Originally Published in Short Stories 1892 The day was drawing to its close, when up the one broad street of the little mountain town came six men : five stern and watchful, revolvers slung to their belts; one, with trembling form and haggard, ghastly face, walking in the centre of the group, with head thrown forward, his eyes fixed on the ground, for well he knows no glance of sympathy will meet his upward gaze. In the little mountain station — his head thrown forward upon his arms — his hand resting, as if by instinct, upon the key of the instrument, the tired operator . . . sleeps.