“’Tain’t Chugg, by God!” said Leander, impelled to violent language by the unexpected.

“It’s Peter Hamilton!” exclaimed Mrs. Dax.

“Land’s sakes, the New-Yorker!” said the fat lady.  Only Judith said nothing.

Mr. Hamilton held the ribbons of that battered prairie-stage as if he had been driving past the judges’ bench at the Horse Show.  Furthermore, he wore blue overalls, a flannel shirt, and a sombrero, which sartorial inventory, while it highly became the slim young giant, added an extra comedy touch to his role of whip.  He was as dusty as a miller; close-cropped, curly head, features, and clothes were covered with a fine alkali powdering; but he carried his youth as a banner streaming in the blue.  And he swung from the stage with the easy flow of muscle that is the reward of those who live in the saddle and make a fine art of throwing the lariat.

They greeted him heartily, all but Judith, who did not trust herself to speak to him before the prying eyes of Mrs. Dax, and escaped to the house.  Chugg’s latest excursion into oblivion had resulted in a fall from the box.  He was not badly hurt, and recuperation was largely a matter of “sleeping it off,” concluded Peter Hamilton’s bulletin of the condition of the stage-driver.  So the travellers were still marooned at Dax’s, and the prospect of continuing their journey was as vague as ever.

“Last I heard of you,” said Mrs. Dax to Hamilton, with a sort of stone-age playfulness, “you was punching cows over to the Bitter Root.”

“That’s true, Mrs. Dax”—­he gave her his most winning smile—­“but I could not stay away from you long.”

Leander grimaced and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight at finding a man who had the temerity to bandy words with Mrs. Dax.

“Hum-m-m-ph!” she whinnied, with equine coquetry.  “Guess it was rustlers brought you back as much as me.”

Judith, who had entered the room in time to hear Mrs. Dax’s last remark, greeted him casually, but her eyes, as they met his, were full of questioning fear.  Had he come from the Bitter Root range to hunt down her brother?  The thought was intolerable.  Yet, when he had bade her good-bye some three weeks ago, he had told her that he did not expect to return much before the fall “round-up.”  She had heard, a day or two before, that he was again in the Wind River country, and her morning vigil beneath the glare of the desert sun had been for him.

Mrs. Dax regarded them with the mercilessness of a death-watch; she remembered the time when Hamilton’s excuses for his frequent presence at the post-office had been more voluble than logical.  But now he no longer came, and Judith, for all her deliberate flow of spirits, did not quite convince the watchful eyes of Leander’s lady—­the postmistress was a trifle too cheerful.

“Mrs. Dax,” pleaded Peter, boyishly, “I’m perishing for a cup of coffee, and I’ve got to get back to my outfit before dark.”