Presently the lumberman went away, perhaps to get his gun, maybe to summon his friends, Tom thought. Whatever his intention, it was not a pacific one. He would not throw down his hand and confess himself a thief and a coward before the ribald citizens of that town. Trouble was coming, and it would be there pretty soon. This would be the final show-down for him, Tom Simpson knew.
Simpson finished his load quickly, piling the bones high as indemnity for the labor he had spent in their recovery, drove to his heap beside the track and began to unload. He kept a wary eye out for the first hostile approach, surprised that they were so long in coming.
This surprise gave way to troubled conjecture when nothing happened. He worked down to the bottom, rearranged his seat, left the horses standing and went to the depot to order his car. The agent received the order sulkily, as if to imply that the railroad didn't want his business any more than the lumberman relished his rivalry in the merry market of osseous remains.
As matters stood, Simpson didn't see much future to that business just then. He believed the lumberman would clean up his pile of bones the minute he left town. The only way to meet such competition would be for him or Waco to remain there all the time, which would not be profitable unless they could work up a bigger trade among the homesteaders than promised.
True, they had enough bones contracted for, with what he had on the ground and would bring the next trip, when Waco would be able to handle a load, to fill a car. His customers were to deliver to Drumwell on the day he had ordered the car set, but he had grave doubts now
