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 rôle 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