“Mornin’, Cap’n. Wall, I’m filled out. I’ve hired this lad and can move whenever you say the word. You——” he looked at me. “What’s your name, you say?”
“Frank Beeson,” I replied.
“Didn’t ketch it last night,” he apologized. “Shake hands with Cap’n Hyrum Adams, Frank. He’s the boss of the train.”
Captain Adams lazily arose—a large figure in his dusty boots, coarse trousers and flannel shirt, and weather-beaten black slouch hat. The inevitable revolver hung at his thigh. His pursed lips spurted a jet of tobacco juice as he keenly surveyed me with small, shrewd, china-blue eyes squinting from a broad flaccid countenance. But the countenance was unemotional while he offered a thick hand which proved singularly soft and flatulent under the callouses.
“Glad to meet you, stranger,” he acknowledged in slow bass. “Set down, set down.”
He waved me to the wagon-tongue, and I thankfully seated myself. All of a sudden I seemed utterly gone; possibly through lack of food. My sigh must have been remarked.
“Breakfasted, stranger?” he queried passively.
“Not yet, sir. I was anxious to reach the train.”
“Pshaw! I was about to ask you that,” Mr. Jenks 156 put in. “Come along and I’ll throw together a mess for you.”
“Nobody goes hungry from the Adams wagon, stranger,” Captain Adams observed. He slightly raised his voice, peremptory. “Rachael! Fetch our guest some breakfast.”