“Oh, pshaw!” And the general’s eyes twinkled. “You aren’t homesick already, are you? You might have to wait there until two o’clock in the morning, for the passenger train. You could catch the same train farther down the line. No; you’d better ride on to Omaha, and see the whole system that you’ve helped build.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Terry—but somehow he felt a little doubtful. If he should be kept at Omaha, on account of Indian trouble—oh, that wouldn’t do at all. His place was at the front.
Kearney had been named for old Fort Kearney, across the river. It wasn’t much of a place, yet: just the station and a store and scattering of small houses. There were several soldiers from the fort standing around. General Dodge and Superintendent Reed had jumped off and seemed to be having business with an officer, while the engine took on water; so Terry and Shep jumped off, too. Then a man came running from the station door, with a piece of yellow paper—a telegram—for the engineer.
He was a lively young man, with a limp. Staring, Terry scarcely could believe his eyes. Now he, too, ran, yelling, and Shep bolted ahead, barking, and they caught the young man, who turned, astonished.
Yes, it was Harry Revere, all right—good old Harry, ex-school teacher, ex-Pike’s Peaker, ex-prospector, ex-Pony Express rider, ex-Overland Stage station-keeper, and a dandy partner.
“For heaven’s sake, what you doing here?” he demanded, as they shook hands.
“Oh, I’m traveling special, inspecting the U. P.,” grinned Terry. “What you doing?”
“I’m the boss lightning-shooter at this shebang,” proclaimed Harry. “You couldn’t travel at all, if it wasn’t for me. See? Wait till I deliver this dispatch.”
In a moment he came back.
“Thought you were somewhere down the line farther; thought you were in Omaha, maybe,” said Terry.