She gave him a knotted handkerchief, and he took it and ran down the platform. This handkerchief he could give back to her as she was leaving, and he would of course buy the ticket through—
He stopped short on the platform.
“What with, you fool?” he thought.
He remembered his drunken impression of the night before that there was, before he should leave, something more to do, or to fetch. His hand went to his pocket. Half a dozen silver dollars were there, no more. In his wallet, which he searched under the light, were two five dollar bills. By now he could hear the rumble of the Overland.
Outside the station two or three Mexicans were lounging. Half a dozen renegade Indians were faithfully arriving with their bead chains and baskets. The waiting-room was empty.
The Inger went in the waiting-room and closed the door. The ticket agent stood behind his window, counting that which ticket-agents perpetually count. The Inger thrust his own head and shoulders through the window, and with them went his revolver.
“I’m Inger of Inch,” he said. “I guess you know me, don’t you? Just you give me a through ticket and all the trimmings to Chicago, till I can get to a bank, or I’ll blow all your brains out of you. Can you understand?”
The ticket agent glanced up, looked into the muzzle, and went on quietly counting.
“All right, Mr. Inger,” he said. “I guess the Flag-pole can stand that much. But you hadn’t ought to be so devilish lordly in your ways,” he complained.
The Inger pocketed his revolver, and smiled—the slow, indolent, adorable smile which had made all Inch and the men at the mines his friends.