Just when she was telling herself that the stage was late, far over the ridge rose the dust signal.  Her pulse quickened expectantly; so much had loneliness done for her.  She watched it, and she tried not to admit to herself that it did not look like the cloud kicked up by the four trotting stage horses.  She tried not to believe that the cloud was much too small to have been made by their clattering progress.  It must be the stage.  It was past time for it to arrive at the post.  And it had not gone by, for she had sent for a can of baking powder and a dozen lemons and fifty cents worth of canned milk (the delicatessen habit of buying in small quantities still hampered her) and, even if the stage had passed earlier than usual, the stuff would have been left at the post for her, even though there was no mail.  But it could not have passed.  She would have seen the dust, that always hung low over the trail like the drooping tail of a comet, and when the day was still took half an hour at least to settle again for the next passer-by.  And besides, she had come to know the tracks the stage left in the trail.  It could not have passed.  And it had to come; it carried the government mail.  And yet, that dust did not look like the stage dust. (Trivial worries, you say?  Then try living forty miles from a post office, ten from the nearest neighbor, and fifteen hundred from your dearly beloved Home Town.  Try living there, not because you want to but because you must; hating it, hungering for human companionship.  Try it with heat and wind and sand and great, arid stretches of a land that is strange to you.  Honestly, I think you would have been out there just after sunrise to wait for that stage, and if it were late you would have walked down the trail to meet it!)

Helen May remained by the post, but she got up and stood on a rock that protruded six inches or so above the sand.  Of course she could not see over the ridge—­she could not have done that if she had climbed a telegraph pole; only there was no pole to climb—­but she felt a little closer to seeing.  That dust did not look like stage dust!

You would be surprised to know how much Helen May had learned about dust clouds.  She could tell an automobile ten miles away, just by the swift gathering of the gray cloud.  She could tell where bands of sheep or herds of cattle were being driven across the plain.  She even knew when a saddle horse was coming, or a freight team or—­the stage.

She suddenly owned to herself that she was disappointed and rather worried.  For behind this cloud that troubled her there was no second one building up over the skyline and growing more dense as the disturber approached.  She could not imagine what had happened to that red-whiskered, tobacco-chewing stage driver.  She looked at her wrist watch and saw that he was exactly twenty minutes later than his very latest arrival, and she felt personally slighted and aggrieved.