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 But he was determined to have his cattle, if he had to fight the whole town. If any railroaders were foolish enough to stand in his way, they'd have to take the medicine he was in town that morning to dispense. He got down at the saloon for a bracer all around, and to find out what the whistle had blown for so early in the morning.

There were between thirty and forty railroad men assembled at the stock yards, most of them young fellows about Laylander's age. The conductor who had been prominent the evening before in his official coat and unofficial trousers, was present, unofficial throughout; and Bill Pinkerton, foreman of the night switching crew; together with three young engineers and a few firemen, a clinker-puller from the roundhouse, some wipers and shopmen. Orrin Smith's gang of jerries was not represented.

Laylander seemed embarrassed and reluctant, standing among them with his rifle. He wanted to say something that stood so big in his mind the dumbest of them could see it. They pressed around him, waiting for him to speak.

"Gentlemen," Laylander began, slowly, as if it hurt, "I beg of you to leave this little matter of personal business to me. I can't expect, I can't ask you, to take up my troubles in this generous way."

"If that's all you've got to say, you'd better go down to that gate and stand there with your gun," the conductor suggested kindly. "That'll be the point they'll break for to let the cattle out."