The sweep of the road that lay before them was gray and dusty. The trees were scrub, and there was rather a deserted look to the country immediately outside of Dugonne.
Wheeling southwest, they quickly lost the railroad lines, and low hills surrounded them. There was not a house in sight, and the last few they had seen were merely slab shacks—some with corrugated iron roofs.
But within two miles of the edge of the town they descried a moving figure ahead, even if no human habitation appeared. It was a woman, trudging along, at the bottom of an arroyo, or dry water-course, which here was the trail.
She did not look around at them, but the young folks on top of the coach got a clear view of the lonely figure. She wore a close black bonnet, and she carried a basket in one hand. Her decent black dress was gray with dust.
“Do you see who that is, Tavia Travers!” gasped Dorothy, suddenly. “It’s Mrs. Petterby!”
“Never!” ejaculated Tavia.
The mustangs began to prick up their ears as they approached the lone pedestrian. Dorothy bent forward and seized the Mexican’s shoulder.
“Stop them—do stop them, sir!” she cried. “We know that old lady and we’ll give her a ride if she’s going our way.”
The Mexican yelled at the mustangs, and dragged them down to a slower pace. They did not want to stop, but by the time they came abreast of the little old lady from Rand’s Falls, Massachusetts, they were merely trotting.
“Mrs. Petterby!” cried Dorothy, leaning down from the seat and waving her hand. “Wherever are you going—and with Ophelia?”