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young—I assume—married couple. When it turned into a side street I saw, bless my soul, that it was pulled by an ox and a donkey. No such team had I ever seen back home. And about that time, I heard a pig squealing, and sure enough, a pig comes scuttling
backward
across the street, somehow pulling a
dog
—right on out of sight, still squealing.
    Beside the train station were three large sheds built of logs down bottom, and up top canvas. Temporary, I suppose, but . . . maybe not.
    Raw lumber was heaped all about, sometimes stacked, sometimesflung into unregulated piles.
    I was looking anxiously for my uncle P.J. It had been decided—through my correspondence with Aunt Ann—that I would open my parasol upon alighting from the train and Uncle P.J. would merely look for that sign.
    I needed the shade from the parasol because the sun was so hot, yet the air seemed unusually light, due no doubt to the fact that we were at an elevation exceeding five thousand feet, according to Mr. Perkins.
    Uncle P.J. approached me. You could see by his eyes that he was a Copeland, and I’d also seen pictures of him. A young cowboy was with him.
    â€œStar?” he asked.
    â€œYes. Uncle P.J.?”
    He gave a little bow and said, “This here is Bumpy. And you need to stand right here a minute, honey, until we’re done finish what we’re doing. We was supposed to do this yesterday.”
    I almost said, ‘And today, Uncle P.J., you are supposed to use correct English.’
    The young cowboy nodded. Younger than I would have expected for a cowboy.
    â€œI got to go pull up a wagon to right over there,” Uncle P.J. said. “I’ll be right back.”
    â€œI’ve just got this one grip,” I said. But he didn’t hear me.
    â€œNo, see,” said the young cowboy, “they’re fixing to explode a Chinaman.”
    â€œFor
me
?” I asked. What in the world?
    â€œNo, ma’am. For business. Just stand here a minute. They have to do it today. For the timing of it all—with the train and everything. Don’t tell nobody.”
    Don’t tell nobody? I thought. Whom would I tell?
We exploded a Chinaman in the West today.
How odd. And what could this possibly be about? Mr. Perkins had said no more than ten minutes earlier that the once wild West was now tame.
    I stood on the platform under the hot sun, my one large satchel at my feet, several gentlemen offering to carry it for me. I rejected said offers and watched my uncle drive a team of horses pulling a wagon from some distance away to a spot near the ramshackle train station, which had begun in its bedraggled way to serve our large group of weary travelers.
    Uncle P.J. alighted from the wagon and came toward me. “This is bad timing,” he said. “We’re conducting a experiment of sorts.” He seemed nervous.
    I was speechless. This was not the reception I had expected.
    â€œI done told her,” said Bumpy.
    â€œJust be quiet a minute,” said Uncle P.J. “There goes Zack and Cobb.”
    A rather unsteady man approached the wagon, and standing as if he were about to fall, struck a match on his boot heel, cupped his hands, and lit a smoke. He extended the smoke into the wagon, out of sight. Another man, an old man with a bushy beard and smoked spectacles, holding something like a dog leash, stood back watching.
    â€œHe’s lighting the fuse,” said Uncle P.J.
    At this point I realized that “Chinaman”
had
to be a word representing something other than a man from China.
    The man with the cigarette, still cupped in his hand, walked toward us with one shoulder lowered. His mouth was moving as he approached. He was counting backwards. “. . . nine . . . eight . . .”
    â€œZack,” said Uncle P.J., “this here’s my niece, Star Copeland.”
    He tipped his hat. “. . . six . . . five . . .”
    A little muffled bump sound came from the