They came within sight of the bleached-out dining-cars. Basking in the morning sun on the steps of one of the old coaches was the figure of a young Indian, who had come from no one knew where the first day of their arrival, and had attached himself to the kitchen department.
Alex laid his hand on the superintendent’s arm. “Mr. Finnan, why not try Little Hawk?”
“It occurred to me just as you spoke. I will. Right now.
“You go on in to breakfast, Ward,” he directed. “And say nothing of our suspicions or discoveries.”
“Very well, sir.”
The members of the telegraph-car party were leaving for the diner as Alex appeared.
“Hello, Ward! Catch the early worm?” inquired one of the track-foremen jocularly.
“You mean, ‘did he shoot it?’” corrected a time-clerk.
At this there was a general laugh, and glancing about for an explanation, Alex saw Elder, Superintendent Finnan’s personal clerk and aide de camp, hastily remove a cartridge-belt and revolver from his waist and toss them into his bunk.
Elder was the one unpopular man in the telegraph-car. An undersized, aggressively important individual, just out of college, and affecting a stylish khaki hunting-suit, natty leather leggings and a broad-brimmed hat, he bore himself generally as though second in importance only to the construction superintendent himself. And naturally he had promptly been made the butt of the party.