“And I ain’t only got seven dollars of that money left,” wails Chuck. “I must ’a’ lost it.”
We all digs down and manages to collect enough to make up the original twenty, and, just as the freight rolls in, we walks over to the lady. Chuck leans over and drops the money in her lap, and her face turns white as flour when she looks up at us.
“Get right into the caboose,” orders Chuck. “Dog-gone it, ma’am, we’re sorry as ——, but we ain’t got no time to argue. There’s the money, and here’s your train. Get on like a nice little girl, and you can write to Doughgod for further information. Sabe?”
I sure felt sorry for her. She sort of gasps and slides off that truck, but I reckon our looks were enough. She allows herself to walk right into the train, and away she goes off up the track toward Silver Bend.
Doughgod has sneaked up and saw the whole thing, and he sure is glad. We all sets down on the platform, and all to once we feels that it has been a year since we had anything to eat. Doughgod offers to take us to a restaurant, but we ain’t presentable; so he offers to bring us a ton of crackers and cheese and sardines. We accepts and cheers Doughgod as he hurries up-town. There’s another train due in an hour; so we sets down there in the shade to eat. We seen the depot-agent looking at us through the window. He’s a new man there; so we don’t blame him for looking with suspicion upon us. We sure filled our skin with food, and then the train comes rambling in.
The usual bunch of folks hops off to stretch their legs, and all to once we hears a voice behind us—
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Smith?”
We all turns, and there stands a tall, skinny female, with a nose like the beak of a hawk and a lot of mustard-colored hair. I glances around and saw Doughgod galloping off up the street like a scared coyote.
“Ma’am,” says Telescope, “I can’t say. He may stop in Paradise, but I’d favor Canada.”
“Say!” yelps a heavy voice behind us, and we all turns. It is the new station agent, and in his hands is one of them sawed-off shotguns which are furnished by express companies, and he’s got it cocked. “I want to know,” says he, “if you are the four whelps who kidnapped my wife and put her in that rig yesterday. The team ran away, turned the corner and ran into a fence, and that’s all that saved her life. I’m asking a question?”