"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?"

"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?"

"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 Bend?" demanded
Dancing in a tone of calculated indifference