“We’re goin’ to water these animals at Pinnacle City,” offered one of the crap-shooters. “You’ll have time to have that tooth pulled.”
“Hadn’t ought to be far now,” observed Hashknife.
He bent his long nose against the dirty window glass and peered out. The wind whistled past, and the sand sifted through the window. A lightning flash illumined things and a rumble of thunder came to their ears.
A few minutes later a brakeman, carrying a lighted lantern, swung aboard.
“Wires down,” he said shortly.
“What’ll that do to us?” queried Hashknife.
“Not much. We’re late and we ought to lay out here and let Number 4 pass us, goin’ north; but we can’t get any orders, and the sidin’s blocked with a freight that broke an axle. We’ll go on to Pinnacle City, and the passenger will have to foller us on a slow order.”
“Quite a storm, eh?” remarked a crap-shooter.
“Some storm ahead of us,” declared the brakeman, going out again.
Finally the engine sent out its shrill blasts, calling in the flagman, and in a few moments the draw-bars jerked shudderingly. The cattle-train was on its way again, picking up the conductor at the station.