“Thanks,” said Brevoort.  “We aim to stay a week, anyhow.”

“Well, they’ll use you all right,” asserted the conductor.  “And if you’re looking for a place to buy anything—­clothes or collars or shirts—­why, right across from the hotel there’s as fine a little clothing-store as you can find in town.  The man that runs is a friend of mine, and he’ll use you white.  Just tell him I sent you.  Stokes is his name—­Len Stokes.”

“Thanks, neighbor,” said Brevoort, and Pete thought that Brevoort’s tone was the least bit sarcastic.

“That’s all right,” said the genial conductor.  “I always like to see the boys have a good time.”

Pete himself was a trifle suspicious of the conductor’s solicitude as to their welfare, naturally unaware that that worthy official got a rake-off on all customers mentioning his name at the hotel and clothing-store.

He gathered up his reports and tickets, snapped a rubber band round them, and dropped them in his capacious pocket.  “We’re eight minutes late,” he remarked, glancing at his watch.  “Now what—­” He rose and made for the end door as the train slowed up and stopped at an isolated siding.  Pete glanced out and saw a little red box of a building, four or five empty freight cars, and a curve of rail that swung off south from the main line.  No passengers got on or off the train, but Pete noticed that the conductor was talking earnestly with a hollow-cheeked, blue-overalled man who had just handed him a slip of paper.

The conductor waved his arm.  The train pulled out.  A little later he came and took his seat opposite Pete.  Conductor Stokes seemed even more genial than ever, elaborating on the opportunities for “a good time” in El Paso, and reiterating the hope that they would make themselves at home at his hotel.  He joked and talked familiarly about the more notorious sections of the town, warned them to be on the lookout for thugs, and finally excused himself and entered the baggage compartment.

Pete saw Brevoort lean forward and hastily snatch up a crumpled slip of paper which had dropped from the conductor’s pocket as he got up.  Brevoort scanned the paper, crumpled it, and tossed it out in the aisle.

“We didn’t see that,” he told Pete.

“What was it?”

“Forget it,” said Brevoort, as the door opened and the conductor, glancing about, finally saw and recovered the service wire.  “Running orders,” he said, as he stuffed it in his pocket and moved on down the aisle.  Pete gazed out of the window, apparently absorbed in looking at the desert.  Brevoort rolled a cigarette, and nodded casually.

The door in the far end of the car slammed.  Brevoort turned to Pete.  “Look straight ahead and—­listen.  That paper you saw was a telegraph from the agent at Sanborn sayin’ a man had been found shot, and to watch out for two cow-punchers that bought tickets for El Paso—­which is us.  That’s how we came to stop at the junction back there, which ain’t a regular stop.  It means there’ll be a marshal waitin’ for us at El Paso.”