The Mountain Divide. Frank H. Spearman
had risen.
“I think this stool is mine,” said he, picking it up and examining it. “It is mine,” he added, after a moment’s inspection. “Please move on.”
“Perhaps before I go,” returned the man with the same unpleasant irony, “you will tell me whether you have an express package here for Harvey Levake.”
6
“Of course I will, Harvey,” responded the operator in a matter-of-fact way. “Just wait a minute.”
Levake’s lips stretched into a ghost of a smile, and his white-lashed gray eyes contracted with an effort at amiability.
The operator, going inside the railing, ran over the express way-bills which, not yet entered up, lay on the freight desk.
“There is a package here for you,” he announced a moment later, and turning to a heap of parcels thrown under the desk he searched among them until he found and produced the one he sought.
“Here it is––a box of cartridges.”
“What are the charges?” asked the man.
“Four dollars and sixty cents.”
The man laid down a twenty-dollar bank-bill. The operator hesitated: “I haven’t the change.”
Levake showed no sympathy: “That is not my fault,” he returned.
The operator looked at him: “Do you want the package to-night?”
7
“If I didn’t, do you suppose I would waste an hour here waiting for it?”
The boy considered a moment and made a decision, but it chanced to be the wrong decision. “Take the package along. Bring me the charges in the morning.”
Levake made no response beyond a further glance at the boy somewhat contemptuous; but he said nothing and picking up his package walked out. No one opposed him. Indeed, had the operator been interested he would have noticed with what marked alacrity every man, as he passed through the waiting-room, got out of Levake’s way. Dancing, standing at the door and with his hair on end, awaited the close of the incident. He now re-entered the inner office and shut the waiting-room door behind him with an audible bang. Bucks, who had returned to his table, looked around. “Well, who are you?” he demanded as he regarded Dancing. “And what are you doing here?”
“Who are you?” retorted Dancing bluntly. “And what are you doing here?”
8
“My name is Bucks and I am the new night operator.”
“You look new. And you act all-fired new. My name is Bill Dancing and I am the telegraph lineman.”
“Why, you are the man I am looking for.”
“So I thought, when you pushed me out of here with the rest of your visitors.”
“Why didn’t you speak up, Bill?” demanded Bucks calmly.
A quizzical expression passed over Dancing’s face. “I didn’t want to break the calm. When I see a man walking around a powder magazine I hate to do anything that might set it off.
“So your name is Bucks,” continued Dancing, as he walked through the wicket and threw his wet hat among the way-bills on the freight desk. “Well, Mr. Bucks, do you know what was most likely to happen to you any minute before you got through with that crowd, just now?”
“No, I don’t know. Why?” asked Bucks, busy with his messages.
“Have you ever seen a shooting mix-up in Medicine 9 Bend?” demanded Dancing in a tone of calculated indifference.
“No,” answered Bucks in decided but off-hand manner, “I never saw a shooting mix-up anywhere.”
“Never got shot up just for fun?” persisted Dancing. “Do you know,” he continued without waiting for an answer, “who that polite man was, the last one you shouldered out of here?” Dancing pointed as he spoke to the corner from which Levake had risen, but the operator, straightening out the papers before him, did not look around.
“No, Bill, I don’t know anybody here. You see I am a stranger.”
“I see you are a stranger,” echoed Dancing. “Let me tell you something, then, will you?”
“Tell it quick, Bill.”
“There is no cemetery in this town.”
“I have understood it is very healthy, Bill,” returned the operator.
“Not for everybody.” Bill Dancing paused to let the words sink in, as his big eyes fixed upon 10 the young operator’s eyes. “Not for everybody––sometimes not for strangers. Strangers have to get used to it. There is a river here,” added the lineman sententiously. “It’s pretty swift, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you have got to be careful how you do things out in this country.”
“But, Bill,” persisted the lad, “if there is going to be any business done in this office we have got to have order, haven’t we?” The lineman snorted and the operator saw that his appeal had fallen flat. “My batteries, Bill,” he added, changing the subject, “are no good at all. I sent for you because I want you to go over them now, to-night, and start me right. What are you going to do?”
Dancing had begun to poke at the ashes in the stove. “Build a fire,” he returned, looking about for material. He gathered up what waste paper was at hand, pushed it into the stove, and catching up the way-bills from the desk, threw them in on the paper and began to feel in his wet pockets for matches.
11
“Hold on,” cried Bucks. “What do you mean? You must be crazy!” he exclaimed, running to the stove and pulling the way-bills out.
“Not half so crazy as you are,” replied Dancing undisturbed. “I’m only trying to show you how crazy you are. Burning up way-bills isn’t a circumstance to what you did just now. You are the looniest operator I ever saw.” As he looked at Bucks he extended his finger impressively. “When you laid your hand on that man’s shoulder to-night––the one sitting on your stool––I wouldn’t have given ten cents for your life.”
Bucks regarded him with astonishment. “Why so?”
“He’s the meanest man between here and Fort Bridger,” asserted Dancing. “He’d think no more of shooting you than I would of scratching a match.” Bucks stared at the comparison. “He is the worst scoundrel in this country and partners with Seagrue and John Rebstock in everything that’s going on, and even they are afraid of him.”
Dancing stopped for breath. “Talk about my 12 making a fire out of way-bills! When I saw you lay your hand on that man, I stopped breathing––can’t breathe just right yet,” he muttered, pulling at his shirt collar. “Do you know why you didn’t get killed?”
“Why, no, Bill, not exactly,” confessed Bucks in embarrassment.
“Because Levake was out of cartridges. I heard him tell Rebstock so when they walked past me.”
“Thank you for posting me. How should I know he was Seagrue’s partner, or who Rebstock is? Let’s make a bargain. I will be more careful in clearing out the office, and you be more careful about building fires. There’s wood in the baggage-room. I couldn’t get out to get it for fear the crowd would steal the tickets.”
“Well, you are ‘out’ four dollars and sixty cents charges on the cartridges,” continued Dancing, “and you had better say nothing about it. If you ever ask Levake for the money he will kill you.”
Bucks looked rebellious. “It’s only right for 13 him to pay the charges. I shall