“He’s following that freight.”
Then Dad turned and hammered out instructions.
“Where is that freight?” Sadie was outwardly calm, but her face had gone white. Slim was following out her instructions.
“Two miles down the road,” said Dad, and continued to hammer at his key.
Sadie fairly ran out of the office and around to where her roan horse was tied. She had seen Slim going away in a cloud of dust, which had not yet settled. In a few moments she was adding to the dust cloud, following Slim.
“Soup” Lannigan was not a gentleman—not by at least a generation or two. He was a yegg, pure but not at all simple. Just now he slid back the door of a freight car, wiped a little coal dust off his face and looked around. Soup was not at all handsome. He was about five feet seven inches tall, with broad shoulders, almost no neck, and a pair of long muscular arms. His forehead retreated while his jaw protruded. If a scientist were to discover Soup’s skull—it would date back at least twenty thousand years.
It was hot in that box car, but it was also hot outside. Soup was thirsty. He squinted back past the caboose, looking around like an animal. Then he rubbed his eyes. Even at two cars distant his eyes beheld a white-clad arm appear and toss a couple of bottles into the sage.
Soup wrinkled his forehead in deep thought. He knew that there were no dining-cars on freight trains. He also knew that this caboose did not carry a white-clad porter. Soup swung warily down, edged away from the car and squinted at the shiny private car. Then he ducked back.
There was nothing to cause Soup to duck back, except, like an animal, he was always expecting something to happen. Then he crawled under the train. Ten cars distant he could see the crew working over a hotbox. He scuttled back. Just back of the private car was a sharp curve, and Soup was wise enough in railroad matters to know that the rear brakeman would be beyond that turn, flagging the rear.