's that cold an' polite
that he'd freeze ye while he's takin' his hat off to ye. One av his arms
is busted, an' he's got a welt or two on his face. But outside av that
he's all right. He rides down into the cut where we're all workin' fit to
kill ourselves. He halts his big black horse about forty or fifty feet
away from the ol' rattle-box that runs the steam shovel, an' he grins like
a tiger at me an' says:

"'Carson, I'm wantin' you to pull your min off. I can't permit anny
railroad min on the Diamond K property. You're a friend av mine, an' all
that, but you'll have to pull your freight. You've got tin minutes.'

"'I've got me orders to do this work,' I says--begging his pardon.

"'Here's your orders to stop doin' it!' he comes back. An' I was
inspectin' the muzzle av his six-shooter.

"'Ye wudn't shoot a mon for doin' his duthy?' I says.

"'Thry me,' he says. 'You're trespassers. The railroad company didn't come
through wid the coin for the right-of-way. Your mon, Corrigan, has got an
idee that he's goin' to bluff me. I'm callin' his bluff. You've got tin
minutes to get out av here. At the end av that time I begin to shoot. I've
got six cattridges in the gun, an' fifty more in the belt around me
middle. An' I seldom miss whin I shoot. It's up to you whether I start a
cemetery here or not,' he says, cold an' ca'mlike.

"The ginneys knowed somethin' was up, an' they crowded around. I thought
Trevison was thryin' to run a bluff on _me_, an' I give orders for the
ginneys to go back to their work.

"Trevison didn't say another word, but at the end av the tin minutes he
grins that tiger grin av his an' busts the safety valve on the rattle-box
wid a shot from his pistol. He smashes the water-gauge wid another, an'
jammed one shot in the ol' rattle-box's entrails, an' she starts to blow
off steam----shriekin' like a soul in hell. The ginneys throwed down their
tools an' started to climb up the walls of the cut like a gang av monkeys,
Trevison watchin' thim with a grin as cold as a barrow ful ov icicles.
Murph', the engineer av the dinky, an' his fireman, ducks for the
engine-cab, l'avin' me standin' there to face the music. Trevison yells at
the engineer av the rattle-box, an' he disappears like a rat into a hole.
Thin Trevison swings his gun on me, an' I c'u'd feel me knees knockin'
together. 'Carson,' he says, 'I hate like blazes to do it, but you're the
boss here, an' these min will do what you tell thim to do. Tel