The chiefs manner, like Larry King’s when there was something in the wind, seemed quiet, easy, potential.  His searching glance held warmth and a gleam that thrilled Neale.  But he was ceremonious, not permitting himself his old familiarity before these dignitaries of the great railroad.

“Gentlemen, you remember Mr. Neale,” said Lodge.

They were cordial—­pleasant.

Warburton vigorously shook Neale’s hand, and leaned back, after the manner of matured men, to look Neale over.

“Young man, I’m glad to meet you again,” he declared, in his big voice.  “Remember him!  Well, I do—­though he’s thinner, older.”

“Small wonder,” interposed the chief.  “He’s been doing a man’s work.”

“Neale, back there in Omaha you got sore—­you quit us,” went on Warburton, reprovingly.  “That was bad business.  I cottoned to you—­ and I might have—­But no matter.  You’re with us again.”

“Mr. Warburton, I’m ashamed of that,” replied Neale, hastily.  “But I was hot-headed ... am so still, I fear.”

“So am I. So is Lodge.  So is any man worth a damn,” replied the director.

“Mr. Neale, you look cool enough now,” observed Rogers, smiling.  “Wish I was as wet and cool as you are.  It’s hot—­in this desert.”

Warburton took off his frock-coat.  “You gentlemen aren’t going to have any the best of me ...  And now, Neale, tell us things.”

Neale looked at his papers and then at his chief.  “For instance,” said Lodge, “tell us about Blake and Coffee.”

“Haven’t you seen them—­heard from them?” inquired Neale.

“No.  Henney has not, either.  And they were his men.”

“Gentlemen, I’m afraid I lost my head in regard to them.”

“Explain, please,” said Warburton.  “We will judge your conduct.”

It was a rather difficult moment for Neale, because his actions regarding the two engineers now appeared to have been the result of violent temper, rather than a dignified exercise of authority.  But then as he remembered Blake’s offer and Coffee’s threat the heat thrilled along his nerves; and that stirred him to forceful expression.

“I drove them both out of this camp.”

“Why?” queried Warburton, sharply.

“Blake tried to bribe me, and Coffee—­”

“One at a time,” interrupted Warburton, and he thrust a strong hand through his hair, ruffling it.  He began to scent battle.  “What did Blake try to bribe you to do?”

“He didn’t say.  But he meant me to cover their tracks.”

“So! ...  And what did Coffee do?”

“He tried to pull a gun on me.”

“Why?  Be explicit, please.”

“Well, he threatened me.  And I laughed at him—­called him names.”

“What names?”

“Quite a lot, if I remember.  The one he objected to was thief ...  I repeated that, and snatched some telegrams from his pocket.  He tried to draw his gun on me—­and then I drove them both out of camp.  They got through safely, for they were seen in Benton.”