She considered the matter, at first unsentimentally, as a workable proposition. In spite of herself she could not hold quite to that aspect of the case. Her blood began to beat faster. She would escape Houck. That was the fundamental advantage of the plan. But she would see the world. She would meet people. Perhaps for the first time she would ride on a train. Wonderful stories had been told her by Dillon, of how colored men cooked and served meals on a train rushing along forty miles an hour, of how they pulled beds down from the roof and folks went to sleep in little rooms just as though they were at home. She would see all the lovely things he had described to her. There was a court-house in Denver where you got into a small room and it traveled up with you till you got out and looked down four stories from a window. "If we go it'll have to be right away," she said. "Without tellin' anybody." "Yes," he agreed. "I could go back to the house an' get my things." "While I'm gettin' mine. There's nobody at the camp but Lon, an' he always sleeps after he gets through work. But how'll we get to Bear Cat?" "I'll bring the buckboard. Dad's away. I'll leave him a note. Meet you in half an hour on Twelve-Mile Hill," she added. It was so arranged. June ran back to the house, hitched the horses to the buckboard, and changed to her best dress. She made a little bundle of her other clothes and tied them in a bandanna handkerchief. On a scrap of coarse brown wrapping-paper she wrote a short note: Dear Dad, I'm going away with Bob Dillon. We're going to be married. Don't blame me too much. Jake Houck drove me to it. I'll write you soon. Don't forget to take the cough medicine when you need it. June She added a postscript. I'll leave the team at Kilburn's Corral. Unexpectedly, she found herself crying. Tears splashed on the writing. She folded the note, put it in the empty coffee pot, and left this on the table. June had no time just now for doubts. The horses were half-broken broncos. They traveled the first hundred yards tied in a knot, the buckboard sometimes on four wheels, but more often on two. At the top of the hill she managed to slacken them enough for Bob to jump in. They were off again as though shot from a bow. June wound the reins round her hands and leaned back, arms and strong thin wrists taut. The colts flew over the ground at a gallop. There was no chance for conversation. Bob watched the girl drive. He offered no advice. She was, he knew, a better teamster than himself. Her eyes and mind were wholly on the business in hand. A flush of excitement burned in June's cheeks. Tolliver never would let her drive the colts because of the danger. She loved the stimulation of rapid travel, the rush of the wind past her ears, the sense of responsibility at holding the lines.