Part 59 (1/2)

Teeters protested through a paroxysm of pain:

”You can't do that, Miss Kate. It's a tedious dirty trip in the caboose.”

”I can't help it. I've too much at stake to take a chance. There's a big storm coming and I've got to get these sheep through in good shape.

Don't worry about me and take care of yourself.”

The engine whistled a preliminary warning as Kate dropped the tent flap and swung back on her horse. Calling to Bowers to have the train held until she returned, she galloped to the Prouty House and ran up the stairs to her room, where she thrust her few articles in the flour sack that she tied on the back of her saddle when it was necessary to remain over night in town.

The last frightened sheep had been urged up the chute and the door was closed when she threw her belongings on the platform of the caboose and informed Bowers that she was going along. He too protested, but her mind was made up.

”We're going to run into a storm, and if we're sidetracked I want to be along. It's not pleasant, but it has to be done.”

It was useless to argue when Kate used that tone, so Bowers had to content himself with thinking that he would make her as comfortable as circ.u.mstances would allow.

Kate stood in the doorway with her flour sack in her hand looking at Prouty as the brakes relaxed and the wheels began to grind. It was not exactly the way in which she had pictured her first trip into the world, but, with a cynical smile, it was as near the realization as her dreams ever were.

Kate had not ridden more than a hundred miles on a train in her life, and her knowledge of cities was still gathered from books and magazines.

As she had become more self-centered and absorbed in her work, her interest in the ”outside” gradually had died. She told herself indifferently that there was time enough to gratify her curiosity.

She sighed as she watched the town fade and then a snowflake, featherlike and moist, swirled under the projecting roof and melted on her cheek, to recall her to herself. She swung out over the step and looked to the east where the clouds hung sagging with their weight. Yes, it was well that she had come.

Behind the plate-gla.s.s window of the Security State Bank its president stood with his hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets watching the long train as, with much belching of smoke, it climbed the slight grade.

There were moments when Mr. Wentz cursed the Fate that had promoted him from his was.h.i.+ng machine, and this was one of them.

Neifkins, hunched in a leather chair in the banker's office, had an obstinate look on his sunburned face.

”I'd give about half I'm worth if that was your stock goin' out,” said Wentz, as he reseated himself at his desk.

Neifkins grunted.

”I heard you the first time you said that.” The stubborn look on his face increased. ”When I'm ready to s.h.i.+p, I'll s.h.i.+p. I know what I'm about--ME.”

Wentz did not look impressed by the boast.

Neifkins added in a surly tone:

”I don't need no petticoat to show me how to handle sheep.”

Wentz answered with a shrug:

”Looks to me like you might follow a worse lead. She's contracted for all the hay in sight and shoved the price on what's left up to sixteen dollars in the stack. What you goin' to do if you have to feed?”

”I won't have to feed; I'll take my chance on that. It's goin' to be an open winter,” confidently.

”It's startin' in like it,” Wentz replied dryly, as he glanced through the window where the falling snowflakes all but obscured the opposite side of the street. Then, emphatically: ”I tell you, Neifkins, you Old Timers take too big risks.”

”I suppose,” the sheepman sneered, ”you'd recommend my gettin' loaded up with a few hundred tons of hay I won't need.”