Bucky OConnor | Page 4

with easy good nature,
making himself at home in Section 4. "Tell the company to send in its
bill. No use jawing about it."

"You'll have to get off, sir."
"That's right--at Tucson."
"No, sir. You'll have to get off here. I have no authority to let you ride."
"Didn't I hear you say the train was late? Don't you think you'd arrive
earlier at the end of your run if your choo-choo got to puffing?"
"You'll have to get off, sir."
"I hate to disoblige," murmured the owner of the jingling spurs, the
dusty corduroys, and the big, gray hat, putting his feet leisurely on the
cushion in front of him. "But doesn't it occur to you that you are a man
of one idea?"
"This is the Coast Limited. It doesn't stop for anybody--not even for the
president of the road."
"You don't say! Well, I ce'tainly appreciate the honor you did me in
stopping to take me on." His slight drawl was quite devoid of concern.
"But you had no right to flag the train. Can't you understand
ANYTHING?" groaned the conductor.
"You explain it again to me, sonny. I'm surely thick in the haid,"
soothed the intruder, and listened with bland good-humor to the
official's flow of protest.
"Well--well! Disrupted the whole transcontinental traffic, didn't I? And
me so innocent, too. Now, this is how I figured it out. Here's me in a
hurry to get to Tucson. Here comes your train a-foggin'--also and
likewise hittin' the high spots for Tucson. Seemed like we ought to
travel in company, and I was some dubious she'd forget to stop unless I
flagged her. Wherefore, I aired my bandanna in the summer breeze."
"But you don't understand." The conductor began to explain anew as to
a dull child. "It's against the law. You'll get into trouble."

"Put me in the calaboose, will they?"
"It's no joke."
"Well, it does seem to be worrying you," Mr. Collins conceded. "Don't
mind me. Free your mind proper."
The conductor, glancing about nervously, noticed that passengers were
smiling broadly. His official dignity was being chopped to mince-meat.
Back came his harassed gaze to the imperturbable Collins with the
brown, sun-baked face and the eyes blue and untroubled as an Arizona
sky. Out of a holster attached to the sagging belt that circled the
corduroy trousers above his hips gleamed the butt of a revolver. But in
the last analysis the weapon of the occasion was purely a moral one.
The situation was one not covered in the company's rule book, and in
the absence of explicit orders the trainman felt himself unequal to that
unwavering gaze and careless poise. Wherefore, he retreated, muttering
threats of what the company would do.
"Now, if I had only known it was against the law. My thick haid's
always roping trouble for me," the plainsman confided to the Pullman
conductor, with twinkling eyes.
That official unbent. "Talking about thick heads, I'm glad my porter has
one. If it weren't iron-plated and copper-riveted he'd be needing a
doctor now, the way you stood him on it."
"No, did I? Ce'tainly an accident. The nigger must have been in my
way as I climbed into the car. Took the kink out of his hair, you say?
Here, Sam!" He tossed a bill to the porter, who was rolling affronted
eyes at him. "Do you reckon this is big enough to plaster your injured
feelings, boy?"
The white smile flashed at him by the porter was a receipt for
indemnity paid in full.
Sheriff Collins' perception of his neighbor across the aisle was more
frank in its interest than the girl's had been of him. The level, fearless

gaze of the outdoors West looked at her unabashed, appreciating
swiftly her points as they impinged themselves upon his admiration.
The long, lithe lines of the slim, supple body, the languid grace missing
hauteur only because that seemed scarce worth while, the unconscious
pride of self that fails to be offensive only in a young woman so well
equipped with good looks as this one indubitably was the rider of the
plains had appraised them all before his eyes dismissed her from his
consideration and began a casual inspection of the other passengers.
Inside of half an hour he had made himself persona grata to everybody
in the car except his dark-eyed neighbor across the way. That this
dispenser of smiles and cigars decided to leave her out in the
distribution of his attentions perhaps spoke well for his discernment.
Certainly responsiveness to the geniality of casual fellow passengers
did not impress Mr. Collins as likely to be an outstanding, quality in
her. But with the drummer from Chicago, the young mining engineer
going to Sonora, the two shy little English children just in