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Updated: May 27, 2025
I'm damned certain they won't now!" A waiter had answered the bell. "Don't have our luggage brought up," Crawshay directed. "We are leaving for New York to-night. That's so, isn't it, Hobson?" he added, turning to his companion. "You bet!" was the grim reply. "I'd give a thousand dollars to be there now." "The Limited's sold out," the man told them.
Within a few minutes the porter came for her things, and the blast of the Limited's whistle warned her that it was time to leave the train. Ten minutes later the Limited was a vanishing object down an aisle slashed through a forest of great trees, and Miss Estella Benton stood on the plank platform of Hopyard station. Northward stretched a flat, unlovely vista of fire-blackened stumps.
About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came from the telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light at a switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an empty express car. "Back up," he shouted: "and kick that car in on the house track." "The Limited's due in a minute," said the switch engineer, turning the gauge lamp upon his watch.
Then she got softly into the aisle, took up her suit case, and left the car. At the steps she turned to give the car porter a message. "Tell Mrs. Marsh the lady in lower five," she said, with a dollar to quicken his faculties, "that Miss Weir had to go back. Say that I will write soon and explain." She stood back in the shadow of the station for a few seconds. The Limited's stop was brief.
The Limited's whistle had shrilled for a stop. At the next stop she wondered what lay in store for her just beyond the next stop. While she dwelt mentally upon this, her hands were gathering up some few odds and ends of her belongings on the berth. Across the aisle a large, smooth-faced young man watched her with covert admiration.
Then she found her time-table, and ran along the interminable string of station names till she found Ashcroft, from whence northward ran the Appian Way of British Columbia, the Cariboo Road, over which she had journeyed by stage. She noted the distance, and the Limited's hour of arrival, and looked at her watch. Then a feverish activity took hold of her.
A whimsical smile played about her mouth, and her fingers tap-tapped steadily on the purse, wherein was folded Bill Wagstaff's map. And then out of the dark ahead a cluster of lights winked briefly, the shriek of the Limited's whistle echoed up and down the wide reaches of the North Thompson, and the coaches came to a stop. Hazel took one look to make sure.
And again Bucky caught that note of stifled laughter in the voice, though the big brown eyes met his quite seriously. They took the train that night for El Paso, Bucky in the lower berth and his friend in the upper of section six of one of the Limited's Pullman cars. The ranger was awake and up with the day.
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