"No," said Winton.

"'Tain't none o' my business, but I'd like to know what stampeded
you."

"A telegram,"--shortly. "It was a put-up job to have me locked up on a
criminal charge, and so hold me out another day."

Biggin grinned. "The old b'iler-buster again. Say, he's a holy terror,
ain't he?"

"He doesn't mean to let me build my railroad if he can help it."

The ex-cowboy found his sack of chip tobacco and dexterously rolled a
cigarette in a bit of brown wrapping-paper.

"If that's the game, Mr. Sheeny Mike, or his backers, will be most
likely to play it to a finish, don't you guess?"

"How?"

"By havin' a po-liceman layin' for you at the train."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"Well, I can think you out of it, I reckon. The branch train is a
'commodation, and it'll stop most anywhere if you throw up your hand
at it. We can take out through the woods and across the hills, and mog
up the track a piece. How'll that do?"