“What old man—the conductor?”
“Yes; and Harker told him he couldn’t do it, because the row didn’t happen on the train; said he didn’t know who you was, anyway. Then I chipped in, and told ’em you was Plucky George, the man that cleaned out the six toughs when they tried to run the bank up at Silverette. Holy Smoke! but you ought to’ve seen old linen duster fall apart when I said that!” The brakeman laughed joyously, but Brant groaned in spirit at this ominous hint that his reputation meant to keep pace with him.
“You’d better believe he was rattled right!” the man went on. “He just went yaller, and the last I saw of him he was up ahead, looking for you so’t he could apologize. Ain’t that rich?”
“Very rich,” said Brant grimly. Then he saw his advantage and made good use of it. “In fact, it is much too rich to spoil. Go find the fellow and tell him I’m in a bad humour, but that he is safe as long as he keeps away from me. Will you do that?”
“Sure,” assented the brakeman, getting upon his feet. “I’ll do better than that: I’ll scare him till he won’t get a good breath this side o’ the Missouri River.”
Brant’s eyes narrowed, and in the turning of a leaf the mantle of humility slipped from him and he became Brant the man-queller.
“You will do nothing of the sort. You will tell him just what I say, and no word more or less. Now go.”
The man of dope kettles and rear-end signals was no coward, but neither was he minded to pick a quarrel with the hero of a dozen savage battles. Brant let him get to the door and then called him back:
“Where does your run end?”
“Voltamo; next stop but one.”