“I’ll see you at Salt Lake,” called Harry, after.
The handcar crew were about ready. They numbered four, in broad-brimmed slouch hats, flannel shirts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. They were just stowing their climbing irons and other tools on the car, and a couple of rifles, also.
Bill Thompson, the red-faced head lineman, with whiskers on his chin, granted Terry a sharp look.
“What’s the matter, bub?”
“Harry said I could go up track with you, if you don’t mind.”
“An’ the dawg too?”
“Yes, please.”
“An’ ’ow fur might you be goin’?” By his speech Bill was English.
“Clear to North Platte, if I can. I’ve got a job with the track-laying gang at end o’ track.”
“You ’ave, ’ave you? H’all right. H’aint afraid o’ h’Injuns, h’are you?”