nine o'clock
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 did n't know .