He had heeled it off fairly lively the last mile or so, inspired by a notion at sight of the railroaders' cars. He might be able to get a meal at the boarding-car; more than likely it would not be necessary to cross the track at all or put foot in the street of Pawnee Bend. He recalled the quietude of the place when he had arrived the day before, hoping he might find it equally sleepy today. He didn't want to see MacKinnon, friendly and apparently honest as he had been, nor anybody else.
There was neither charity nor business in the boarding-car door. No, she wasn't runnin' a eatin'-house, the red-armed, large-girthed lady said. That was a boardin' train for railroaders, and she didn't have anything to give or sell to bums. No, she wouldn't slice anything off for him and hand it out, but a mean-eyed man with draggled hair who appeared in the door behind her said he'd slice something off if Dunham didn't get to hell out of there. So Dunham got, running headend into MacKinnon as he was turning in at the waiting-room door of the station.
"I thought you got to hell out o' here last night," said MacKinnon, for that was a stock phrase in Pawnee Bend, as it is elsewhere among people of quick passions and little delicacy. One might conclude that such people believe their situation the center of paradise, and all the rest of the world dedicated to the damned.
"Well, I'm back here now, anyhow," Dunham replied, thinking if he was in for it, let it begin as soon as it might.
He was ill-humored and ready for a row, the rebuff
