A few guarded inquiries and a brief, but thorough, search satisfied him on this point; so saddling up Johnny, and tying on his slicker, he rode slowly down to the depot to await the in-coming East-bound train prior to his departure for his lonely detachment.
The train arrived, and on it, Churchill. The local sergeant was a man about Ellis’s own age, well set up and passable enough in appearance, but with the florid, blotchy complexion, weak mouth, and uncertain gaze of the habitual drinker. A few lucky arrests in which chance—more than pluck or ability had figured, coupled with a certain cleverness in avoiding trouble—had somehow enabled him to retain his stripes and the sleepy little Line detachment. That there was no love lost between them was very evident; Benton, on his side, making little effort to disguise the contempt he felt for the other.
It was a long-standing hostility, dating back many years when, as recruits together in the Post, a trivial quarrel originating first in the Canteen, had terminated finally in the corral at the back of the regimental stables—with disastrous results to Churchill—who, ever since this event, had not been man enough to forget, forgive, or attempt to get even.
A few cold civilities were exchanged, and Ellis remarking, “Here’s the key of your dive,” chucked him over that article; then with a careless “So long,” turned his horse and edged up nearer to the platform to speak to the station agent.
On account of a small wash-out that had happened to the track some few miles east, the train was held up for a short time, and the platform was crowded with passengers who were strolling up and down, glad of the opportunity to stretch their legs after their long confinement.
Benton, less impatient than Johnny, who was pawing, eager to be off, was watching them absently, when he suddenly became aware of his being, apparently, an object of interest to somebody standing near and, turning his head slightly, he beheld a tall, magnificently-built, dark girl, eyeing him and Johnny with eager curiosity and admiration.
And in very truth, handsome, saturnine-faced Ellis Benton, and the big, black, pawing horse that he bestrode with the long-stirruped, loose-seated, easy, careless grace of an habitué of the range, were both fitting representatives of the great Force which they served.
Wistful and sweet, the girl stood there and gazed awhile at man and horse and presently she slowly came forward and, with a kind, impulsive friendliness that immediately thawed the Sergeant’s habitual reserve, said:
“I’m sure you must be thinking me awfully rude—staring at you so long; but I was looking at your beautiful horse and wondering whether you were a policeman or a soldier or what.”
And, smiling whimsically down into the girl’s eager upturned face, the Sergeant made answer: