At the other end of the wire, the superintendent had quietly impressed secrecy on his operator and clerk, ordered his fast mare harnessed, and gone to his private office.
“Read that!” said he to his secretary. “It was about time for some trouble of this kind, and now I'm going to let Uncle Sam take care of his mails. If I don't get to the reservation before the General's turned in, I shall have to wake him up. Wait for me, please.”
The gray mare made the six miles to the military reservation in just half an hour. The General was smoking his last cigar, and was alert in an instant; and before the superintendent had finished the jorum of “hot Scotch” hospitably tendered, the orders had gone by wire to the commanding officer at Fort ———, some distance east of Barker's, and been duly acknowledged.
Returning to the station, the superintendent remarked to the waiting secretary:
“The General's all right. Of course we can't tell that this is not a sell; but if those Perry hounds mean business they'll get all the fight they want—and if they've got any souls—which I doubt—may the Lord have mercy on them!”
He prepared several despatches, two of which were as follows:
“It's worth about ten thousand dollars,” sententiously remarked he, “that Sinclair's on that train. He's got both sand and brains. Goodnight,” and he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.
III
The sun never shone more brightly and the air was never more clear and bracing than when Sinclair helped his wife off the train at Pawnee Junction. The station-master's face fell as he saw the lady, but he saluted the engineer with as easy an air as he could assume, and watched for an opportunity to speak to him alone. Sinclair read the despatches with an unmoved countenance, and after a few minutes' reflection simply said: “All right. Be sure to keep the matter perfectly quiet.” At breakfast he was distrait —so much so that his wife asked him what was the matter. Taking her aside, he at once showed her the telegrams.