“It’s like this, Mr. Annister,” he said slowly. “I’m a new man on the S. P., but I’ve been hearing a lot—no gossip, you understand—but a conductor hears a good deal, by and large.... And this is a cow country, or it used to be—pretty wild, in spots. Dry Bone, now—they run things pretty much to suit themselves—”
He paused, in a visible embarrassment.
“There’s a party of four back there in the diner—I couldn’t help overhearing what they were saying, and—well—I’m just repeating what they said, and no offense—”
“That’s all right,” interrupted Annister, evenly. “Go on.”
“Why—they said,” continued the conductor, “that you were an Eastern gambler—a—confidence-man—that you were not wanted here in Dry Bone; that it wouldn’t be exactly healthy for you if you stopped off—that’s all. I thought you’d be wanting to know. And if you’ll take my advice, even if you haven’t asked it, I’d say: go on to Tombstone—you can figure it out from there.”
“Thanks,” answered Annister shortly. “I’m getting off—at Dry Bone. How soon are we due?”
“Fifteen minutes,” replied the conductor, glancing at his watch. “But if I was you, sir, I’d stay aboard; it’s a bad crowd there, as I happen to know, and they’ve got a branch of the S. S. S. there, only they work it to suit themselves: tar-and-feathers is just a picnic with that gang; they’re a stemwinding bunch of assassins, I’ll say! So far they’ve operated under cover, mostly, and down here in the Southwest—well—it ain’t a lot different, in some ways, than it was thirty years ago. You’ll see—because they’re—”
“—Southwest of the Law—is that it?” Annister laughed shortly. “Well—much obliged, old-timer,” he said. “I won’t forget it. But I’m getting off.”
The long train was slowing for the station stop. Annister, striding to his seat, got down his heavy bag. For a moment he stood, considering, his gaze, under lowered lids, upon the long coach and its passengers in a swift, squinting appraisal.
The three men were gone.