“It’s all right!” I mumbled. “But let’s make it private. Listen! I’ll whisper!” I leaned forward, sliding both hands along his legs, getting close to his ear. I laid hands on both weapons and jerked myself back, holding them low at my hips.
“Make one move and I’ll bore you,” I growled. “Go back to your seat. Go quick!”
He went. I tucked the guns into my own pockets.
We passed the station to which I had paid fares, and I handed more money to the conductor. I decided to stay on the train, hoping that my client would arrive at his home town, whatever it was, and get off. But he kept right on.
After a time he held up a handkerchief by one corner and waggled it, giving me a drunken and moist wink. Evidently he wanted further conference under a flag of truce, and I nodded agreement after I had made sure that the guns could be come at easily. I agreed because I hoped I could make some sensible arrangement to get rid of this particular bottle imp who had landed himself on to my affairs.
“You think you’re a slick one, eh?” My hopes fell, for his tone did not suggest compromise. “You’d better turn around and go back. You’re heading into the wrong country. Will you go back?”
“What is the country?”
“Thought you said you used to live out this way!”
“I say, what is the country you’re speaking of?”
“The Potlatch section,” he growled. “You’d better not get as far as that. You know Shan Benson, don’t you?”