Carhart came in from the rear, nodded to the stranger, and picked up the envelope. “You brought this, sir?” he asked.
“Yes; Mr. Flint asked me to.”
Very deliberately Carhart read the letter, and, without the slightest change of expression, tossed it on the table. “You must have supper with us,” he said. “If you stopped with John Flint you perhaps know how little an engineer’s hospitality amounts to, but such as we have we shall be very glad to share with you.”
“Thank you,” replied the stranger.
“You are a ranchman, I presume?” Carhart went on.
“Yes—in northwest of Red Hills. I go to Sherman every year.”
Young Van spoke, “He thought of taking one of our trains through.”
Carhart smiled dryly. “I should be greatly obliged to you, sir, if you could take a train through,” he said. “That’s something we don’t seem able to do.”
The wizened one glanced up with a keen expression about his eyes. “Having trouble back along the line?” he asked.
“You might call it trouble. My old friend Bourke, of the H. D. & W., has cut in behind us with a small army.” He gave a little shrug. “I can’t get through. I can’t get either way now that they’ve got in between Flint and Red Hills.”