Part 9 (1/2)
”Yes, thanks. Have another cigar?”
”Don't care if I do. Say, that old fire-eater back yonder in the private car has got a mighty pretty gal, ain't he?”
”The young lady is his niece,” said Winton, wis.h.i.+ng that Mr. Biggin would find other food for comment.
”I don't care; she's pretty as a Jersey two-year-old.”
”It's a fine day,” observed Winton; and then, to background Miss Carteret effectually as a topic: ”How do the people of Argentine feel about the opposition to our line?”
”They're red-hot; you can put your money on that. The C. G. R.'s a sure-enough tail-twister where there ain't no compet.i.tion. Your road'll get every pound of ore in the camp if it ever gets through.”
Winton made a mental note of this up-cast of public opinion, and set it over against the friendly att.i.tude of the official Mr. Biggin. It was very evident that the town-marshal was serving the Rajah's purpose only because he had to.
”I suppose you stand with your townsmen on that, don't you?” he ventured.
”Now you're shouting: that's me.”
”Then if that is the case, we won't take this little holiday of ours any harder than we can help. When the court business is settled--it won't take very long--you are to consider yourself my guest. We stop at the Buckingham.”
”Oh, we do, do we? Say, pardner, that's white--mighty white. If I'd 'a' been an inch or so more'n half awake this morning when that old b'iler-buster's hired man routed me out, I'd 'a' told him to go to blazes with his warrant. Nex' time I will.”
Winton shook his head. ”There isn't going to be any 'next time,'
Peter, my son,” he prophesied. ”When Mr. Darrah gets fairly down to business he'll throw bigger chunks than the Argentine town-marshal at us.”
By this time the train was slowing into Carbonate, and a few minutes after the stop at the crowded platform they were making their way up the single bustling street of the town to the court-house.
”Ever see so many tin-horns and bunco people bunched in all your round-ups?” said Biggin, as they elbowed through the uneasy s.h.i.+fting groups in front of the hotel.
”Not often,” Winton admitted. ”But it's the luck of the big camps: they are the dumping-grounds of the world while the high pressure is on.”
The ex-range-rider turned on the courthouse steps to look the sidewalk loungers over with narrowing eyes.
”There's Sheeny Mike and Big Otto and half a dozen others right there in front o' the Buckingham that couldn't stay to breathe twice in Argentine. And this town's got a po-lice!”--the comment with lip-curling scorn.
”It also has a county court which is probably waiting for us,” said Winton; whereupon they went in to appease the offended majesty of the law.
As Winton had predicted, his answer to the court summons was a mere formality. On parting with his chief at the Argentine station platform, Adams' first care had been to wire news of the arrest to the Utah headquarters. Hence Winton found the company's attorney waiting for him in Judge Whitcomb's courtroom, and his release on an appearance bond was only a matter of moments.
The legal affair dismissed, there ensued a weary interval of time-killing. There was no train back to Argentine until nearly five o'clock in the afternoon, and the hours dragged heavily for the two, who had nothing to do but wait. Biggin endured his part of it manfully till the midday dinner had been discussed; then he drifted off with one of Winton's cigars between his teeth, saying that he should ”take poison” and shoot up the town if he could not find some more peaceful means of keeping his blood in circulation.
It was a little after three o'clock, and Winton was sitting at the writing-table in the lobby of the hotel elaborating his hasty notebook data of the morning's inspection, when a boy came in with a telegram.
The young engineer was not so deeply engrossed in his work as to be deaf to the colloquy.
”Mr. John Winton? Yes, he is here somewhere,” said the clerk in answer to the boy's question; and after an identifying glance: ”There he is--over at the writing-table.”
Winton turned in his chair and saw the boy coming toward him; also he saw the ruffian pointed out by Biggin from the court-house steps and labeled ”Sheeny Mike” lounging up to the clerk's desk for a whispered exchange of words with the bediamonded gentleman behind it.
What followed was cataclysmic in its way. The lounger took three staggering lurches toward Winton, brushed the messenger boy aside, and burst out in a storm of maudlin invective.
”Sign yerself 'Winton' now, do yet ye lowdown, turkey-trodden--”