“I hope it will be yours,” said Dr. Slavens’ eyes as he looked earnestly at Agnes; and: “Number Two would do very well for me in case your name came first,” her eyes seemed to answer him.
But there was none by who knew what had passed between them of their hopes, so none could read the messages, even if there had been any so curious as to try.
Mrs. Mann was humming a little song as they started away toward the newspaper office, for she was tiring of Wyoming, where she had not seen a single cowboy yet; and the prospect of returning to the miller was growing dear to her heart. There was a quiet over Comanche that morning which seemed different from the usual comparative peace of that portion of the day–a strained and fevered quiet, as of hushed winds before a gale. It took hold of even June as the party passed through the main street, joining the stream of traffic which pressed in one direction only.
They could not arrive within a square of the newspaper-tent, for the crowd around it was packed and dense; so they stopped where there was breathing-space 86 among groups of men who stood with their gripsacks between their feet, waiting for the first word.
At five minutes past ten the editor of The Chieftain handed his printer a slip of paper, and the name of the winner of Claim Number One was put in type. The news was carried by one who pushed through the throng, his hat on the back of his head, sweat drenching his face. The man was in a buck-ague over the prospect of that name being his own, it seemed, and thought only of drawing away from the sudden glare of fortune until he could collect his wits.
Some people are that way–the timid ones of the earth. They go through life leaving a string of baited traps behind them, lacking courage to go back and see what they have caught.
More than two hundred names were in the first extra run off The Chieftain’s press at half-past ten. The name of the winner of Number One was Axel Peterson; his home in Meander, right where he could step across the street and file without losing a minute.
Milo Strong, the schoolmaster from Iowa, drew Number Thirty-Seven. None of the others in the colony at the Hotel Metropole figured in the first returns.
They went back as silently as they had come, the doctor carrying the list in his hand. Before the tent stood the lumberman and the insurance agent, their bags in their hands.
“We’ve got just six minutes to catch the first train 87 out,” said the insurance agent, his big smile just as wide as ever. “Good luck to you all, and hope we meet again.”