He stumbled over the rough ground that had been rutted by the wheels of the jigger wagons. The muffled thud of the hoofs of dozing horses guided him in his search for the stables, and he found the door of the hostlers’ quarters and pounded.
“You’ll have to go see the super; I don’t dare to let a hoss out of here without orders,” said the man who listened to his request.
“Tell me where his house is, and lend me a lantern.”
The hostler yawned and mumbled and complained because he had been disturbed, but he fumbled for the lantern, lighted it, and gave it to Latisan, along with directions how to find the super’s home.
That minor magnate was hard to wake, but he appeared at an open upper window after a time and listened.
“We can’t spare a horse in mud time, with the hauling as heavy as it is. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Ward Latisan.”
“Hold that lantern up side of your face and let me see!”
The young man obeyed meekly.
“Excuse me for doubting your word of mouth,” said the super, after he had assured himself, “but we hardly expected to see you back in this region.” It was drawled with dry sarcasm.