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Cullin was shouting to invisible switchmen, and presently the train came bumping to a stand. Another minute and two or three early birds among the yardmen were climbing aboard and curiously, excitedly, peering over Geordie's head. He never looked up. Calmly he continued his sponging. Then Cullin's voice was heard again. A stretcher was thrust in at the rear door.
The water and the sunshine down here seem all right, but the land and the people and the pigs and stock seem to be cullin's throwed out when they made Injianny." At length the train halted by a double log house of much more pretentious character than any they had so far seen. There were a couple of well-filled corn-cribs, a large stack of fodder, and other evidences of plenty.
Yet that was just what now was likely to happen. Resentful of there being a mystery about the cab, a secret he was not allowed to share an outsider made known by Cullin's superiors to Cullin's subordinates, yet not presented to him true to human nature Cullin had told what Geordie would conceal.
Cullin would never have said what he did had he known the identity of Toomey's pupil, and Geordie argued that Cullin's gruff and insolent greeting was in reality a tribute to his powers a recognition of the fact that he looked the part he was trying to play.
"'Twouldn't be like Long Nolan to be skipping when he's needed by his friends," growled Toomey. "He's no quitter, if he was at Powder River," whereby it was Cullin's turn to get a dig, and little did he relish it. "That's another I owe you, Toomey," said he, "and we'll settle it by-and-by. Just now I'm thinking for your friend, if you are not.
Nor spare the flirting Cassoc'd rogue, Nor ancient Cullin's polish'd brogue; Nor gay Lothario's nobler name, That Nimrod to all female fame.
Swiftly and scientifically he kept up the play of the sponges; shook his head to Cullin's suggestion of a little more whiskey the frontier's "first aid" for every kind of mishap. The pulse said there was no further need of it, at the moment at least.
Very different was Cullin's Cove, the little fishing-village that lay slightly to the right of the town. Here traditions were carefully guarded; a strict watch was kept on the outside world, and strangers were none too cheerfully received.
"He'll fix it," said Shiner, from the platform of the caboose, while his eyes sought the face of the tall young fellow at Cullin's back. Cullin strode to the corner of the office and followed the ranchman with curious eyes. That sun-tanned, bow-legged person straddled down the back steps, his big spurs jingling, a high boot-heel catching on next to the lowermost and pitching him forward.
"I suppose after hammering him senseless they set him adrift on that hand-car, hoping it would finish him and hide their crime," he hazarded. "Looks like it," was Cullin's short answer as once more he climbed to his station. Ten minutes later they were slowly trundling in among a maze of tracks and sidings, with long trains of gondolas, coal-cars, and dingy-brown freight-boxes on both sides.
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