“No, sir.”
“Needn’t be scared of Injuns, boy,” remarked one of the other men, as Terry and Shep hopped aboard together. “They don’t bother the track. These here guns are for antelope. You sit at one end, out of the way, and hold your dog where he won’t be stepped on.”
With a running start they were off. Harry waved from the station door.
Shep lay braced, considerably astonished; but he was a wise old dog, and put his trust in his master. Terry sat with his legs hanging over the rear end of the car; the men, two to a bar, pumped regularly; the car gathered way, and moved clanking over the rails. This assuredly beat riding upon a train, because a fellow was right outdoors and could see everywhere.
It was sort of go-as-you-please, too. The men kept close watch of the telegraph line; now and then they stopped the car, and one of them put on his climbing irons and shinned up a pole, to inspect. But they didn’t find the break, yet. Meanwhile the sun sank lower and lower, and presently entered a bank of clouds in the west. Dusk began to gather; the plains seemed very quiet and lonely, and the handcar small and lost.
What with the frequent stops, to investigate, darkness was making everything dim when they rolled into Plum Creek station. Plum Creek was as lonely as the country around; the station was locked and the agent evidently had gone for the night.
“’E wouldn’t know h’anything, any’ow,” remarked Bill Thompson. “’E h’ain’t a h’operator.”
They bowled on, through Plum Creek, and into the darkness.
“’Ow’s a man expected to see a broken wire this time o’ day?” Bill grumbled.
“’Tisn’t day; it’s night.”