The two young men took the trail again. The moroseness of Sam was real and not affected this time. He had flared up because the girl could not let him alone about his friendship for Soapy Stone. In his heart the boy knew he was wrong, that he was moving fast in the wrong direction. But his pride would neither let him confess it or go back on his word to the men with whom he had been living.
About noon the next day they reached Saguache. After they had eaten, Curly strolled off by himself to the depot.
“Gimme a ticket to Tin Cup for this evening. I want to go by the express,” he told the agent.
The man looked at him and grinned. “I saw you at Mesa in the bucking broncho doings last year, didn’t I?”
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Why?”
“You certainly stay with the bad bronchs to a fare-you-well. If I’d been judge you’d a-had first place, Mr. Flandrau.”
“Much obliged. And now you’ve identified me sufficient, how about that ticket?”
“I was coming to that. Sure you can get a ticket. Good on any train. You’re so darned active, maybe you could get off Number 4 when she is fogging along sixty miles per. But most folks couldn’t, not with any comfort.”
“Meaning that the Flyer doesn’t stop?”
“Not at Tin Cup.”