CHAPTER III

A MINUTE TOO LATE


The Overland, westbound, was late. Nevertheless, it had to stop at
Antelope, but it did so grudgingly and left with a snort of disdain for
the cow-town of the high mesa. Curious-eyed tourists had a brief glimpse
of a loading-chute, cattle-pens, a puncher or two, and an Indian
freighter's wagon just pulling in from the spaces, and accompanied by a
plodding cavalcade of outriders on paint ponies.

Incidentally the westbound left one of those momentarily interested
Easterners on the station platform, without baggage, sense of direction,
or companion. He had stepped off the train to send a telegram to a
friend in California. He discovered that he had left his address book in
his grip. Meanwhile the train had moved forward some sixty yards, to
take water. Returning for his address book, he boarded the wrong
Pullman, realized his mistake, and hastened on through to his car. Out
to the station again--delay in getting the attention of the telegraph
operator, the wire finally written--and the Easterner heard the rumble
of the train as it pulled out.

Even then he would have made it had it not been for a portly individual
in shirt-sleeves who inadvertently blocked the doorway of the telegraph
office. Bartley bumped into this portly person, tried to squeeze past,
did so, and promptly caromed off the station agent whom he met head on,
halfway across the platform. Gazing at the departing train, Bartley
reached in his pocket for a cigar which he lighted casually.