“Who can they be?” said Mrs. Rayner, all vehement interest now, and gazing eagerly from the window at the lowered heads of the horses and the muffled figures in blue and fur.  “What can they be doing in the field in such awful weather?  I cannot recognize one of them, or tell officers from men.  Surely that must be Captain Wayne,—­and Major Stannard.  Oh, what can it mean?”

The young man had suddenly leaped to the window behind them, and was gazing out with an eagerness and interest little less apparent than her own, but in a moment the train had whisked them out of sight of the storm-beaten troopers.  Then he hurried to the rear window of the car, and Mrs. Rayner as hastily followed.

“Do you know them?” she asked.

“Yes.  That was Major Stannard.  It is his battalion of the ——­th Cavalry, and they have been out scouting after renegade Cheyennes.  Pardon me, madame, I must go forward and see who have boarded the train.”

He stopped at his section, and again she followed him, her eyes full of anxiety.  He was busy tugging at a flask in his travelling-bag.

“You know them!  Do you know—­have you heard of any infantry being out?  Pardon me for detaining you, but I am very anxious.  My husband is Captain Rayner, of Fort Warrener.”

“No infantry have been sent, madame, I—­have reason to know; at least, none from Warrener.”

And with that he hurriedly bowed and left her.  The next moment, flask in hand, he was crossing the storm-swept platform and making his way to the head of the train.

“I believe he is an officer,” said Mrs. Rayner to her sister.  “Who else would be apt to know about the movement of the troops?  Did you notice how gentle his manner was?—­and he never smiled:  he has such a sad face.  Yet he can’t be an officer, or he would have made himself known to us long ago.”

“Is there no name on the satchel?” asked Miss Travers, with pardonable curiosity.  “He has an interesting face,—­not handsome.”  And a dreamy look came into her deep eyes.  She was thinking, no doubt, of a dark, oval, distingue face with raven hair and moustache.  The youth in the travelling-suit was not tall, like Steven,—­not singularly, romantically handsome, like Steven.  Indeed, he was of less interest to her than to her married sister.

Mrs. Rayner could see no name on the satchel,—­only two initials; and they revealed very little.

“I have half a mind to peep at the fly-leaf of that book,” she said.  “He walked just like a soldier:  but there isn’t anything there to indicate what he is,” she continued, with a doubtful glance at the items scattered about the now vacant section.  “Why isn’t that porter here?  He ought to know who people are.”

As though to answer her request, in came the porter, dishevelled and breathless.  He made straight for the satchel they had been scrutinizing, and opened it without ceremony.  Both ladies regarded this proceeding with natural astonishment, and Mrs. Rayner was about to interfere and question his right to search the luggage of passengers, when the man turned hurriedly towards them, exhibiting a little bundle of handkerchiefs, his broad Ethiopian face clouded with anxiety and concern: