"Oh, thank me all you want, Sissy; gratitude becomes young maidens," mutters Lot, trying to get the beautiful white fingers once more in his.
"Indeed I am grateful," cries the girl, and giving him a look that makes his eyes grow misty and watery, Miss Travenion closes the door of her stateroom, and goes to bed thinking no more of Mr. Kruger's peculiar expression and glances, for he is a friend of her father, and at the least has fifty odd years to his credit on the book of time.
She would be perhaps more concerned about her father's friend did she see Mr. Kruger, whose knowledge of French is very limited, after pondering to himself, "What did that gal mean by O-ver?" finally answer his query by "Guess ag'in, Lot," and betake himself to the smoking car, where, after perusing the girl's telegram several times, he slyly chuckles to himself, "What!—and spile my hopes for myself and my work for the Church?" and with this curious but ambiguous remark places the document coolly in his ample but well-worn pocketbook, between a list of Welsh emigrants en route for Salt Lake City and a despatch from Brigham Young; and shortly after that turn in and sleep the sleep of the just, making no attempt either to find her father's address nor to wire her message, either at Medicine Bow or any other point on the line.
Notwithstanding this, the next morning at Green River, where the train stops for breakfast, Mr. Kruger is on hand to help her from the car and say with paternal voice, "Sissy, Dad's happy now. Dad's happy now!"
"Ah, you've sent the message," exclaims Erma with grateful eyes.
"Yes, it flewed away during the early morning," mutters Lot, which happens to be the exact truth, as, thinking the thing over, he had concluded it was best not to have the message on his person, and had torn it and tossed it out of the car window to the winds of Heaven, as the train had run down those alkaline, non-drinkable waters, cursed by early emigrants and pioneers under the name of Bitter Creek.
But Erma Travenion hardly heeds him; her eyes are towards the West and she is murmuring, "Papa—perhaps this afternoon,—certainly to-night!—if not Ogden—surely Salt Lake!" and her face is so happy, and she goes to thanking Mr. Kruger so heartily for his kindness in sending the telegram, that he might have pangs of conscience as to what he intends for this Eastern butterfly, who comes with brightness on her wings into the West, had he not been used to dealing with all people sternly, even himself, when acting for the glories of Zion, and the smiting down of unbelievers.
Then being joined by the Livingstons and Mr. Chauncey, who have been looking at the surprising scenery of this river, the first water they have as yet met which flows into the blue Pacific, she goes in to breakfast; Mr. Kruger, who seems to feel more at his ease as he nears his native heath, walking alongside of Miss Beauty. Pointing to the great elk heads with their branching antlers on the hotel walls, he remarks, "Thar's any quantity of them critters up thar in the Wind River Mountains, in which this 'ere stream heads."
"You've been up there?" asks Ferdie, always excited when big game is mentioned.
"Wall rather," returns Lot. "I was up all about thar and the Rattlesnake Hills and the Sweetwater Mountains and South Pass and Independence Springs in 1857, when Johnston and the U.S. troops were comin' through, and we rounded up and burnt—" But here he stops very suddenly.