"There was never but one thing I really laid up against this man," said Cameron to me.
"What's that?" asked Foley.
"Why, the way you shoved that pistol into my face the first night you took out No. 1."
"I never shoved any pistol into your face." So saying, he stuck his hand into his pocket with the identical motion he used that night of the strike, and levelled at Andy, just as he had done then—a plug of tobacco. "That's all I ever pulled on you, son; I never carried a pistol in my life."
Cameron looked at him, then he turned to me, with a tired expression:
"I've seen a good many men, with a good many kinds of nerve, but I'll be splintered if I ever saw any one man with all kinds of nerve till I struck Foley."
Second Seventy-Seven
It is a bad grade yet. But before the new work was done on the river division, Beverly Hill was a terror to trainmen.
On rainy Sundays old switchmen in the Zanesville yards still tell in their shanties of the night the Blackwood bridge went out and Cameron's stock-train got away on the hill, with the Denver flyer caught at the foot like a rat in a trap.