"BIG BEN WAS BUSY WITH HIS OIL-CAN"[ToList]
"You know where to take him?" he asked. "All right, then, I'll leave him with you." And before the station-master or other official could come, Graham had seen his patient transferred to the stretcher, borne forth into the sunshine and away to the passenger-room. Then, slipping from the left rear steps, with the train between him and the building, Geordie sauntered, softly whistling, up to the front again, and in five minutes was helping Toomey at the cab.
It was not yet seven. Big Ben was busy with his oil-can. Three cars had been cut out from the train and run to a platform close at hand. It was high time they were off again, but the conductor was held in the office, whither he had gone for orders, as well as to report concerning their unsought passenger. Toomey was still angered against Cullin, between whom and himself there was ever more or less friction, but Geordie had begun to take a fancy to him. Cullin would never have said what he did had he known the identity of Toomey's pupil, and Geordie argued that Cullin's gruff and insolent greeting was in reality a tribute to his powers—a recognition of the fact that he looked the part he was trying to play.
With so very much at stake depending on Graham's remaining unrecognized, with old Fort Reynolds only six miles ahead, and Silver Shield only twenty-six farther, it would be foolish to become involved in a squabble. But Toomey had been nursing his wrath. Big Ben was not too fond of Cullin, and Geordie found that they were quite bent on making trouble at first opportunity. In spite of the early hour an air of excitement pervaded the station. Many men were idling about the passenger platform, and here and there little groups could be seen in muttered conversation. There was no laughter, no light-hearted chaff. It was noted by both men in the cab, before Geordie rejoined them, that as the injured man was borne on his stretcher across the yard into the passenger station, these groups seemed rather to edge away instead of crowding about in morbid curiosity.
No need to ask who or what they were. The pallor of the faces, so startling in contrast to the healthy tan of the ranch folk or the swarthy grime of the railway men—the mud-splashed boots and trousers told their tale. They were miners to a man, and miners in ugly mood.
"The town's been full of 'em since noon yesterday," said a yardman to Ben, in answer to his question. "They are here to see the Silver Shield officers, and have been told they'd be up from Denver on No. 3. They chased old Breifogle out of his office yesterday afternoon, and he's been hiding ever since. Young Breifogle has been missing ever since yesterday noon."
"That's him on the stretcher," said Big Ben, gloomily, for the news was already flying round. "Cullin says he's about done for. This young feller in here took care of him all the way up from Buffalo Butte. No. 4 picked him up down the gulch and put him aboard us there."
A long whistle was the only comment. At the first words spoken by the yardman, a quick glance passed between the two young men on the opposite, the fireman's, side of the cab. They could not see the speaker, but they knew the voice. It was that of a former trooper of the —th, another soldier who had sought to treble his savings at the mines and had lost them all; then, too proud to return and "take on" again, had found starvation-wages at Argenta.
"Stay here," whispered Toomey, "and keep sittin'." Then, wiping his hands on a wad of waste, and with an affable grin on his face, he swung over behind Ben and leaned out of the cab.
"Hullo, Scotty! Any of our fellers in that outfit?"