He could not see a yard ahead of him for the storm, and knew not but the next instant he would be dashing into the passenger train with its burden of precious lives—­his heart seemed to cease beating.  The engine was instantly reversed, the sudden revulsion nearly tearing the locomotive to pieces.  She ran on for fifty yards or more rocking like a ship in a storm.  He had hurried back as fast as a full head of steam could bring him, and thus averted a dreadful accident.

We found that our station signal light had been blown out.

Five minutes later both trains had departed, and we went to bed with happy hearts, thankful for the almost miraculous prevention of a dire calamity.

Christmas day, an incident occurred at the station which went a considerable way toward settling our somewhat shattered nerves.  The station had not been scrubbed for quite a long time, and was beginning to have anything but an inviting appearance.

After no end of inquiries as to where a washerwoman could be got, we located one at the far end of the village.  She was a full-blooded squaw, and one of the most ill-favored specimens of the female sex I had ever set eyes upon.

Two dollars a day was the price agreed upon.  She must have made five dollars every day she was at the station.  She was a most industrious thief; we could keep nothing in the place from her.  Not only would she unblushingly steal our groceries, but under the big loose blanket that hung in folds around her tall, gaunt figure, she actually spirited away our pots, kettles and pans.

She worked just as she pleased.  Every half-hour or so she would squat on the floor, pull out an intensely black clay pipe, and indulge in a smoke.  I love smoking, but I never failed to put as much distance as possible between myself and the rank black fumes which poured with so much gusto from her mouth.  The last place she had to clean was the telegraph office.  She entered the office very reluctantly, and furtively glanced at the telegraph instruments.  “Me no like great spirit,” she said fearfully, pointing to the mass of wires under the table.  We talked to her for a long time and finally got her started working.  The instruments were cut out so as to make no noise.

Slowly the squaw drew nearer the table where the instruments were.  As she did so her coal-black eyes were actually glittering with nervous dread.  Just as she was stretching her long arm under the table, a train steamed into the station.  The conductor wanted orders.  My companion, forgetting the poor squaw, pulled out the switch and turned on the current.  Her arm must have been just touching the wires under the table at that instant.

The next moment a terrific yell was uttered by our frantic washerwoman, as she sprang to her feet and rushed for the door, upsetting the bucket of dirty water in her meteor-like progress.  Out of the station, across the tracks, and away out on to the open prairie she fled, never pausing till she reached the village, where she turned into an Indian’s house and was lost from view.  The next morning her son came to get the few articles belonging to her.  He would not come any nearer the station than the side-track, and we were compelled to carry her belongings to him.