“This is not a criminal matter, Mr. Biggin: will you give me a moment with my friend?”
The ex-cowboy grinned. “Bet your life I will. I ain't lovin' that old b'iler-buster in the private car none too hard.” And he went in to get the passes.
“What's up?” queried Adams, forgetting his drawl for once in a way.
“An arrest—trumped-up charge of trespass on that mining claim up yonder. But I've got to go to Carbonate to answer the charge and give bonds, just the same.”
“Any instructions?”
“Yes. When the train is out of sight and hearing, you get back over there and drive that track-laying for every foot there is in it.”
Adams nodded. “I'll do it, and get myself locked up, I suppose.”
“No, you won't; that's the beauty of it. The majesty of the law—all there is of it in Argentine—goes with me to Carbonate in the person of the town-marshal.”
“Oh, good—succulently good! Well, so long. I'll look for you back on the evening train?”
“Sure,” was the confident reply, “if the Rajah doesn't order it to be abandoned on my poor account.”