“Held up?” gasped the operator.
“That’s right. Get this message right through to Sabin. I’m not going to wait for an answer. Tell him I’ll stop at Apache for further instructions.”
With which the conductor was out again waving his lantern as a signal for the train to start. Sheriff Collins and Major Mackenzie had entered the office at his heels. They too had messages to send, but it was not until the train was already plunging into the night that the station agent read the yellow slips they had left and observed that both of them went to the same person.
“Lieutenant Bucky O’Connor, Douglas, Arizona,” was the address he read at the top of each. His comment serves to show the opinion generally in the sunburned territory respecting one of its citizens.
“You’re wise guys, gents, both of yez. This is shure a case for the leftenant. It’s send for Bucky quick when the band begins to play,” he grinned.
Sitting down, he gave the call for Tucson, preparatory to transmitting the conductor’s message to the division superintendent. His fingers were just striking the first tap when a silken voice startled him.
“One moment, friend. No use being in a hurry.”
The agent looked up and nearly fell from his stool. He was gazing into the end of a revolver held carelessly in the hand of a masked man leaning indolently on the counter.
“Whe—where did you come from?” the operator gasped.
“Kaintucky, but I been here a right smart spell. Why? You takin’ the census?” came the drawling answer.