They had followed the train down the long platform, screaming to the flagman to pull the signal cord. He had not heard them. He had merely closed the gate and gone into the car.
Here Dorothy Dale and Tavia Travers were, deserted at this un-named prairie station, where—to all appearances—there was not a soul.
“And if anyone is here, I expect I shall be scared to death,” admitted Tavia, sitting down beside her chum.
It was so dark that only the vastness of the earth and sky was made known to them—and that but vaguely. Stars twinkled above their heads, but seemingly so high that, as Tavia complained, they did not seem like “the stars at home, back East!”
Sitting facing the railroad tracks, they saw no lights but the switch targets. There was no tower here, nor did there seem to be any life at all about the railroad property. Why the express train had stopped here, to tempt them to disembark, the girls could not imagine.
They were sitting close up against the great corral fence. The deep breathing of the herd was like the distant, low notes of an organ; the girls were not now interested in the manifestation of the presence of such a great number of cattle. But the cattle were curious.
Another came and snorted behind them, and Dorothy and Tavia scrambled up in a hurry. “They sound just as savage as bears,” declared Tavia.
“I don’t see why they have all deserted the cattle,” murmured Dorothy. “I should think there would be a night watch.”
“And all the railroad people have deserted, too.”
“Oh, dear!” said Dorothy. “We can’t even send a telegram after the train to tell Aunt Winnie we are all right.”