"Right on time."
Upon the surface of the vast plains to the south of east had appeared a dot. It rapidly enlarged, and resolved into two dots, one behind the other. They were coming—they were coming: the first stagecoaches, sure enough; each drawn by four mules, driver on seat, other people on seat and roof, heads protruding from windows, mules at a gallop.
"Yes, sir-ee! On time to the minute."
Swaying and lurching and dust-enveloped, with creak of leather and sudden grind of brake-shoes, the leading stage slackened at the station, stopped abruptly, and setting the brake more securely the driver tossed his lines to the ground and in leisurely fashion descended. He was in slouch hat, white shirt-sleeves (or whitish, rather), yellow kid gloves and shiny boots. Somewhat of a dandy, he.
Another man swung down from the seat, after him; so did the passengers atop the coach, and those within piled out. The second coach arrived in like fashion.
The first coach was painted red, the second green; and both were gilt striped and bore, in gilt letters, the announcement: "Leavenworth and Pike's Peak Express Company."
The station-agent's assistant bustled to unhitch the mules and put in fresh ones. The station agent served the dinner, of cold boiled buffalo meat, bread and coffee. The passengers ate out of doors, sitting on the boxes and a nail-keg.
One of the passengers who had ridden on top of the coach was a busy, inquiring man with a full brown beard and a blue eye and a long linen duster. After he had eaten he walked over to Harry and Terry.
"I'm Henry Villard, from the Cincinnati Commercial," he said, genially. "The station agent tells me that you boys have had quite an exciting experience on this new trail. Buffalo stampede, and a rescue, and all that. I'd like to hear about it and send it to my paper. It ought to make a good story."
The man who had occupied the seat with the driver also came over.