A RANCHMAN'S RECOLLECTIONS 



been a strike in the mines; the men were visiting the 

 different camps, in which "booze" flowed prett>' 

 freely. Between stations Joe and I had been sitting 

 in a double seat, smoking and chatting. I faced 

 the front of the car. He came into the front door 

 after leaving a station, and was about half-way down 

 the aisle taking his fares when a shot rang out a few 

 seats in front of him. I happened to be looking at 

 him. The change in him was incredible. He seemed 

 to lengthen and broaden, and those gentle eyes had 

 a gleam in them like that of a tiger cat. Joe moved 

 so rapidly that he seemed to be at the seat where the 

 shot was fired without moving. He was calm as 

 death itself. His voice was steady and unraised, 

 but there was a chill in it as he said, "What are you 

 shooting at?" "Nothin'," came the reply; "just see- 

 ing if I could shoot through the roof and make you 

 jump." "Ticket," said Joe. The shooter passed up 

 to him the ace of spades. Again I didn't see Joe 

 move, but the tough straightened out: the butt-end 

 of a forty-four had stunned him. Then, backing 

 himself up against the car, Joe said: "This is Joe 

 Bradley's train; is there anyone else here wants to 

 try to run it?" 



I am not going to believe in mild eyes again. 

 Joe's were searchlights, and by some sort of fas- 

 cination every eye in the car looked into his, and 

 there were no takers. Joe called for a cup of water, 

 a little of which he dashed into the stunned man's 



[179] 



