The horse responded with a spurt of desperate speed. He had a way of handling a horse that the animal responded to with almost human sympathy and intelligence. He seemed to breathe his own will into the horse’s spirit. He flew over the ground, and reached the train just as the fireman cut off the water and the engineer tapped his bell to start.
He flung his horse’s rein over a hitching post that stood near the silent little station-house, rushed to the track, and sprang on the day coach as it passed.
He had intended to ride fifty miles on this train, see his sweetheart face to face—learn the truth from her own lips—and then return on the up-train. He hoped to ride back to Hambright before day and keep the fact of his trip a secret.
Now a new difficulty arose—a very simple one—that he had not thought of for a moment. She was in a Pullman sleeper of course, and asleep.
There were three sleepers, one for Atlanta, one for New Orleans, and one for Memphis. He hoped she was in the Atlanta sleeper as that was her destination, though if that were crowded in its lower berths she might be in either of the others. But how under heaven could he locate her? The porter probably would not know her.
He was puzzled. The conductor approached and he paid his fare to the next stop, fifty miles.
“I’ve an important message for a passenger in one of these sleepers, Captain,” he exclaimed. “I have ridden across the mountains to catch the train here.”
“All right, sir,” said the genial conductor. “Go right in and deliver it. You look like you had a tussle to get here.”
“It was a close shave,” Gaston replied.
He stepped into the Atlanta sleeper and encountered the dusky potentate who presided over its aisles.