The whistle of the northbound train came up the track and they climbed down from the fence and went to the depot. The telegraph operator called Tom and handed him a dispatch.
“It’s from Marshal Black,” said Tuttle to Ellhorn, “and he wants me to go up to Santa Fe as quick as I can get there. I reckon I’d better jump right onto this train. Emerson don’t need me any more now. Tell him about it, and if he wants me for anything, or you-all think I’d better come, wire, and I’ll flirt gravel in a minute. Good-bye, old man.”
Emerson Mead made a detour through the northern end of the town and came into the mountain road at the lower edge of the uplands. He galloped down the street, checking his horse to a slow trot as he neared Pierre Delarue’s house. With sidelong glances he keenly examined the veranda and the open doors and windows, but he could see no flutter of drapery, nor the flaxen curls of the child. With a protesting disappointment in his heart he held the horse back to a walk while he stooped over and examined the cinch. He had almost passed the place when little Paul came around the house, trailing a subdued looking puppy at the end of a string, saw him, and ran to the gate shrieking his name. Mead turned back, a warm flood of delight surging into his breast.
“Hello, little Bye-Bye! Do you want to ride with me? Run back to the house and ask your sister if you can go.”
The child ran back to the porch and from within the house Mead heard Marguerite give permission. “Won’t she come out?” he thought, anxiously.
“You must come and lift me up,” said Paul, and Mead determined to buy him the finest toy in the town.
“Climb on the fence and let Mr. Mead put you on.”
“She won’t come. She does not want to see me,” thought Mead.
“No, I want you to come,” persisted Paul, who was in a naughty mood.