Dead Man's Cache - Chapter 4 The Real Bucky and the False

Number seven was churning its way furiously through brown Arizona. The day
had been hot, with a palpitating heat which shimmered over the desert
waste. Defiantly the sun had gone down beyond the horizon, a great ball of
fire, leaving behind a brilliant splash of bold colors. Now this, too, had
disappeared. Velvet night had transformed the land. Over the distant
mountains had settled a smoke-blue film, which left them vague and
indefinite.

Only three passengers rode in the Pullman car. One was a commercial
traveler, busy making up his weekly statement to the firm. Another was a
Boston lady, in gold-rimmed glasses and a costume that helped the general
effect of frigidity. The third looked out of the open window at the
distant hills. He was a slender young fellow, tanned almost to a coffee
brown, with eyes of Irish blue which sometimes bubbled with fun and
sometimes were hard as chisel steel. Wide-shouldered and lean-flanked he
was, with well-packed muscles, which rippled like those of a tiger.

At Chiquita the train stopped, but took up again almost instantly its
chant of the rail. Meanwhile, a man had swung himself to the platform of
the smoker. He passed through that car, the two day coaches, and on to the
sleeper; his keen, restless eyes inspected every passenger in the course
of his transit. Opposite the young man in the Pullman he stopped.

"May I ask if you are Lieutenant O'Connor?"