The Man of the Desert

It was morning, high and clear as Arizona counts weather, and around the
little railroad station were gathered a crowd of curious onlookers;
seven Indians, three women from nearby shacks--drawn thither by the
sight of the great private car that the night express had left on a side
track--the usual number of loungers, a swarm of children, besides the
station agent who had come out to watch proceedings.

All the morning the private car had been an object of deep interest to
those who lived within sight, and that was everybody on the plateau; and
many and various had been the errands and excuses to go to the station
that perchance the occupants of that car might be seen, or a glimpse of
the interior of the moving palace; but the silken curtains had remained
drawn until after nine o'clock.

Within the last half hour, however, a change had taken place in the
silent inscrutable car. The curtains had parted here and there,
revealing dim flitting faces, a table spread with a snowy cloth and
flowers in a vase, wild flowers they were, too, like those that grew all
along the track, just weeds. Strange that one who could afford a private
car cared for weeds in a glass on their dining-table, but then perhaps
they didn't know.