It was easy to lead the teamster round to the north side of the shaft house, from which point they could better view the angry sky and speculate on the progress of the flames.
“Doggone it, tha’s just my luck to be stuck up here whilst the rest of the boys go to town an’ see the fun,” the faithful guard lamented. “I wisht I’d joined the hook an’ ladder comp’ny when I was asked, then I’d sure enough have to go.”
Madden sympathized. It was tough luck. If he wasn’t all tired out running from town he certainly would like to see the fire himself. Sure enough it was an A-1 fire.
They sat down on a pile of timbers that had been hauled up to the Ground Hog for sets to be used in underground work.
A man came round the corner of the shaft house and moved toward them. The guard caught sight of him and remembered what he was there for. He jumped up and pulled out a revolver.
“Keep back there!” he ordered excitedly.
The man moved evenly toward him, hands buried in his trousers pockets.
The guard backed away. “Who are you? Git back there. Hear me? Git back.”
In a duel of wits the man who is certain of himself has the advantage of the one who is not sure. Scot McClintock did not lose a stride. His unhurried indolence radiated confidence.
“Want a little talk with you,” he said quietly. “Thought probably——”