The leader, in easy tones, urged his men to greater speed.
“Get a hustle, boys,” he said, in a deep, steady voice, while he strove with his somewhat delicate hands to lift a keg into the wagon.
The effort was too great for him single-handed, and one of his assistants came to his aid.
“There’s no time to spare,” he went on a moment later, breathing hard from his exertion. “Maybe the loco driver’ll whistle for brakes.” He laughed with a pleasant, half humorous chuckle. “If that happens, why—why I guess the train’ll be chasing back on its tracks to pick up its lost tail.”
He spoke with a refined accent of the West. The man nearest him guffawed immoderately.
“Gee!” he exclaimed delightedly. “This game’s a cinch. Guess Fyles’ll kick thirteen holes in himself when that train gets in.”
“Thirteen?” inquired the leader smilingly.
“Sure. Guess most folks reckon that figure unlucky.”
The third man snorted as he shouldered a keg and moved toward the Wagon.
“Holes? Thirteen?” he cried, as he dropped his burden into the vehicle. Then he hawked and spat. “When that blamed train gets around Amberley he’ll hate hisself wuss’n a bank clerk with his belly awash wi’ boardin’ house wet hash.”