“They're red-hot; you can put your money on that. The C. G. R.'s a sure-enough tail-twister where there ain't no competition. Your road'll get every pound of ore in the camp if it ever gets through.”
Winton made a mental note of this up-cast of public opinion, and set it over against the friendly attitude of the official Mr. Biggin. It was very evident that the town-marshal was serving the Rajah's purpose only because he had to.
“I suppose you stand with your townsmen on that, don't you?” he ventured.
“Now you're shouting: that's me.”
“Then if that is the case, we won't take this little holiday of ours any harder than we can help. When the court business is settled—it won't take very long—you are to consider yourself my guest. We stop at the Buckingham.”
“Oh, we do, do we? Say, pardner, that's white—mighty white. If I'd 'a' been an inch or so more'n half awake this morning when that old b'iler-buster's hired man routed me out, I'd 'a' told him to go to blazes with his warrant. Nex' time I will.”
Winton shook his head. “There isn't going to be any 'next time,' Peter, my son,” he prophesied. “When Mr. Darrah gets fairly down to business he'll throw bigger chunks than the Argentine town-marshal at us.”
By this time the train was slowing into Carbonate, and a few minutes after the stop at the crowded platform they were making their way up the single bustling street of the town to the court-house.
“Ever see so many tin-horns and bunco people bunched in all your round-ups?” said Biggin, as they elbowed through the uneasy shifting groups in front of the hotel.
“Not often,” Winton admitted. “But it's the luck of the big camps: they are the dumping-grounds of the world while the high pressure is on.”