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.
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