“Ef he tuck a dislike to a feller, would he come right out flatfooted an’ tell him so? Nary time—not muchly! He’d lay low an’ bite ’em in the heel. He’s pizon, I tell ye, pizon from head to toe, an’ sartin death. Ef he gives you a black look, jest putt your heel on his head an’ squash it. But look to your boots, fust. Gi’ me a match, youngster.”
Calhoun then repeat the threats of Dusky Dick, he had that day addressed to Clara, and then awaited Tom’s reply, in some anxiety of mind.
“An’ he said that—he did?” slowly returned Maxwell, his brow knitting, as he puffed furiously at his relighted pipe.
“Those words, or to the same effect.”
“Wal then, thar’s snags ahead, boss, you kin jest bet your high old ocean ware!” exclaimed Tom. “What’re you goin’ to do ’bout it?”
“I don’t know, just yet. That is what I asked your opinion for.”
“Wal then, ef he said them words, he meant somethin’. He ain’t the sort o’ feller to shoot his mouth off at nothin’, when he’s mad, jest fer the fun o’ hearin’ hisself talk. Look here—do you know ’at he’s lost four trains in the last two years? an’ that one more jest got through by stud-hoss luck, a’ter two days’ hard fightin’? I don’t say ’at he’s in cahoot ’th the reds, not a-tall; but ef I hed a spite ag’in’ this ’ere train, an’ wanted to git it wiped out, I’d jest go to Mister Dusky Dick, Esquire, an’ say—whar’s the brigynees, Dick?” significantly replied Tom, tapping one horny finger against the other palm.
“Then what do you advise, Maxwell?” somewhat anxiously asked Major Calhoun, deeply impressed by the earnest words of the veteran guide.
“What do I ’vise? Now thar you’ve got me, as Joe Nerr said to the whale when he sucked him in. What d’you think?”
“I thought some of discharging him,” was the thoughtful reply.