eight o'clock
The last sound that reached their ears was the ironic note of a war whoop repeated again and again . It was the day set for the wedding , the eighteenth since the girl had left , the sixteenth since a new mound had arisen on the bare lot adjoining that beneath which rested Landman Bud Smith , the twelfth since How Landor had arrived to haunt the tiny railway terminus . The one train from the East was due at 8:10 of the morning . It was now eight o'clock . Within the shambling , ill-kept hotel , with its weather-stained exterior and its wind-twisted sign , the best room , paid for in advance and freshly dusted for the occasion , awaited an occupant . In a stall of the single livery , a pair of half-wild bronchos , fed and harnessed according to directions , were passively waiting . An old surrey , recently oiled and tightened in all its senile joints , was drawn up conveniently to the door .