A word started the horses into a lope. The buckboard was whirled along over the last two miles to Stockchute in a wild race against the train. The steam horse won. It had sidetracked the private car attached to the rear of the last pullman and was puffing away westward, when Ashton guided his running team in among the crude shacks of the town. He swung around at a more moderate pace towards the big chute for cattle-loading, and fetched up a few yards out from the rear step of the private car.
An assiduous porter had already swung down with a box step. A big, square-faced, square-framed man of twenty-eight or thirty stepped out into the car vestibule. He sprang to the ground as Miss Knowles stepped from the buckboard. She had lowered her veil, but it failed to mask the extreme brilliancy of her eyes and her quick changes of color. Her face, flushed from the excitement of the race into town, went white when she first saw the man in the vestibule; flushed again when he sprang down; again paled; and, last of all, glowed radiantly as she advanced to meet him. 139
He hastened to her, baring his big head of its Panama, and staring at her fashionable hat and dress in frank surprise.
“Mr. Blake!” she murmured.
At the sound of her voice he started and fixed his light blue eyes on her veiled face with a keen glance. She turned pale and as quickly blushed, as if embarrassed by his scrutiny.
“Excuse me!” he apologized. “You are Miss Knowles?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Knowles?” he repeated, half to himself. “Strange! Haven’t I met you before?”
“In Denver?” she suggested. “I spend my winters in Denver. But there was one in Europe.”
“No, it wouldn’t be either. You must excuse me, Miss Knowles. There was something about your voice and face––rather threw me off my balance. If you’ll kindly overlook the bungling start-off! I’m greatly pleased to meet you. My wife will be, too. May I ask you to step aboard the car?––No, here she is now.”