The lanky marshal had reached the station.
"It's a good thing there's prohibition in this town," Skinny muttered as he stepped from the car and started brushing the dust from his coat;
"Why?"
"'Cause I'd go get drunk if there wasn't—. Wonder if a feller could get any boot-leg liquor?"
"Better leave it alone," Old Heck warned, "that kind's worse than none.
It don't make you drunk—just gives you the hysterical hydrophobia!'
"Well, I'd drink anything in an emergency like this if I had it,"
Skinny declared doggedly.
"Train's comin'," Old Heck said shortly; "reckon we'd better go over to the depot—"
"Let's wait here till they get off first," Skinny said. "We can see them from where we are and kind of size 'em up and it won't be so sudden."
"Maybe that would be better," Old Heck answered.
A moment later Number Seventeen, west-bound Santa Fe passenger train, stopped at the yellow station. The rear cars were obscured from the view of Skinny and Old Heck by freight sheds along the track. With the exception of the engine, baggage, mail and express cars, which were hidden by the depot, the rest of the train was in plain sight.