“You won’t come back,” said Frosty bruskly.  “See that streak uh yellow, over there?  Get a move on, if yuh don’t want to miss that train—­but ease Spikes up the hills!”

I nodded, pulled my hat down low over my eyes, and rode away; when I did get courage to glance back, Frosty still stood where I had left him, looking down at the gray horse.

An hour after sunrise I slipped off Spikes and watched them lead him away to the stable; he staggered like a man when he has drunk too long and deeply.  I swallowed a cup of coffee, mounted a little buckskin, and went on, with Pochette’s assurance, “Don’t be afraid to put heem through,” ringing in my ears.  I was not afraid to put him through.  That last forty-eight miles I rode mercilessly—­for the demon of hurry was again urging me on.  At ten o’clock I rolled stiffly off the buckskin at the Osage station, walked more stiffly into the office, and asked for a message.  The operator handed me two, and looked at me with much curiosity—­but I suppose I was a sight.  The first was to tell me that a special would be ready at ten-thirty, and that the road would be cleared for it.  I had not thought about a special—­Osage being so far from Frisco; but Crawford was a wonder, and he had a long arm.  My respect for Crawford increased amazingly as I read that message, and I began at once to bully the agent because the special was not ready at that minute to start.  The second message was a laconic statement that dad was still alive; I folded it hurriedly and put it out of sight, for somehow it seemed to say a good many nasty things between the words.

I wired Crawford that I was ready to start and waiting for the special, and then I fumed and continued my bullying of the man in the office; he was not to blame for anything, of course, but it was a tremendous relief to take it out of somebody just then.

The special came, on time to a second, and I swung on and told the conductor to put her through for all she was worth—­but he had already got his instructions as to speed, I fancy; we ripped down the track a mile a minute—­and it wasn’t long till we bettered that more than I’d have believed possible.  The superintendent’s car had been given over to me, I learned from the porter, and would carry me to Ogden, where dad’s own car, the Shasta, would meet me.  There, too, I saw the hand of Crawford; it was not like dad or him to borrow anything unless the necessity was absolute.

I hope I may never be compelled to take another such journey.  Not that I was nervous at the killing pace we went—­and it was certainly hair-raising, in places; but every curve that we whipped around on two wheels—­approximately—­told me that dad was in desperate case indeed, and that Crawford was oiling every joint with gold to get me there in time.  At every division the crack engine of the shops was coupled on in seconds, rather than minutes, bellowed its challenge to all previous records, and scuttled away to the west; a new conductor swung up the steps and answered patiently the questions I hurled at him, and courteously passed over the invectives when I felt that we were crawling at a snail’s pace and wanted him to hurry a bit.