It came, a roar of swirling, choking and gurgling. Simultaneously there was a trembling of the rails beneath him.

He was on the shattered span.

At a crawl Jack proceeded. The vibration became more violent. On one side the track began to dip. Momentarily Jack hesitated, and paused. At once came a picture of the train rushing toward him, and conquering his fear, he went on.

Suddenly the track swayed violently, then dipped sharply sideways. With a cry Jack sprang off backwards, and threw himself flat on his face on the sleepers. Trembling, deafened by the roar of the cataract just beneath him, he lay afraid to move, believing the swaying structure would give way every instant. But finally the rails steadied, and partly righted; and regaining his courage, Jack rose to his knees, and began working his way forward from tie to tie, pushing the bicycle ahead of him.

Presently the rails became steadier. Cautiously he climbed back into the saddle, and slowly at first, then with quickly increasing speed and rising hope, pushed on. The vibration decreased, the track again became even and firm. Suddenly at last the thunder of the river passed from below him, and he was safely across.

A few yards from the bridge, and still in the mist, Jack peered down to see that the oil can was safe. He caught his breath. Reaching out, he felt about the little platform with his foot.

Yes; it was gone! The tipping of the car had sent it into the river.

As the significance of its loss burst upon him, and he thought of the peril he had come through to no purpose, Jack sat upright in the saddle, and the tears welled to his eyes.

Promptly, however, came remembrance of the Riverside Park station, a mile ahead of him. Perhaps there was oil there!

Clenching his teeth, and bending low over the handlebars, Jack shot on, determined to fight it out to the finish.

Meantime, at the main office the entire staff, including the superintendent, the chief despatcher and Alex, were crowded in the western windows, watching, waiting and listening. Shortly after Alex had announced Jack's departure a suppressed shout had greeted the tiny light of his lantern on the bridge approach, and a subdued cheer of good luck had followed him as he had disappeared into the wall of mist.

Then had succeeded a painful silence, while all eyes were fixed anxiously on the spot opposite where a light west wind, blowing down through a cut in the hills, occasionally lifted the blanket of fog and dimly disclosed the river bank and track.

Minute after minute passed, however, and Jack did not reappear. The silence became ominous.

"Surely he should be over by this time, and we should have had a glimpse of his light," said the chief. "Unless—"

An electrifying cry of "There he is!" interrupted him, and all momentarily saw a tiny, twinkling light, and a small dark figure shooting along the distant track.

A moment after the buzz of excited hope as suddenly died. From the north came a long, low-pitched "Too—oo, too—oo, oo, oo!"

The train!

"How far up, Allen?"

"Three miles."

The superintendent groaned. "He'll never do it! He'll never do it! She'll be at the bridge in five minutes!"



"No; Broad is careful," declared the chief, referring to the engineer of the coming train. "He won't keep up that speed when he strikes the worst of the fog. There are eight or ten minutes yet."

Again came the long, mellow notes of the big engine, whistling a crossing.

"Who's that?" said Alex suddenly, half turning from the window. The next moment with a cry of "He's at the station! Orr's at the Park station!" he darted to the calling instruments, and shot back an answer. The rest rushed after, and crowded about him.

"I'm at the Park station," whirled the sounder. "I broke in. I lost the oil can on the bridge. There is no oil here. What shall I do?"

As the chief read off the excited words to the superintendent, the official sank limply and hopelessly into a chair.

"But might there not be some there, somewhere? Who would know, Mr. Allen?"

At Alex's words the chief spun about. "McLaren, call Flanagan on the 'phone!" he cried. "Quick!"

The operator sprang to the telephone, and in intense silence the party waited.

He got the number.

"Hello! Is Flanagan there?

"Say, is there any oil across the river at the Park station?

"For Heavens sake, don't ask questions! Is there?"

"Yes; he says there's a half barrel in the shed behind," reported the operator.

Alex's hand shot back to the key.

At the first dot he paused.

Through the open window came a whistle, strong and clear.

The chief threw up his hands. Alex himself sank back in his chair, helplessly.

Suddenly he again started forward.

"I have it!"

With the sharp words he again grasped the key, and while those about him listened with bated breath he sent like a flash, "Jack, there's a barrel of oil in the shed at the rear. Knock the head in, spill it, and set a match to it.

"Burn the station!"

The chief and the operators gasped, then with one accord set up a shout and darted back for the windows. The superintendent, told of the message, rushed after.

In absolute silence all fixed their eyes on the spot a mile up the river where lay the little summer depot.

Once more came the long-drawn "Too—oo, too—oo, oo, oo!" for a crossing.

"The next'll tell," said the chief tensely—"for the crossing this side of the station, or—"

It came. It was the crossing.

But the next instant from the mist shot up a lurid flare. From the windows rose a cry. Higher leaped the flames. And suddenly across the quiet morning air came a long series of quick sharp toots. Again they came—then the short, sharp note for brakes.



And the boys and the flames had won!

The superintendent turned and held out his hand. "Ward, thank you," he said huskily. "Thank you. You are a genuine railroader."

"And—about the station?" queried Alex, a sudden apprehension in his face and voice. For the moment the crisis was past he had realized with dismay that he had issued the unprecedented order for the burning of the station entirely on his own responsibility.

"The station?" The superintendent laughed. "My boy, that was the best part of it. That was the generalship of it. There was no time to ask, only act. The fraction of a second might have lost the train.

"No; that is just why I say you are a genuine railroader—the burning of the station was a piece of the finest kind of railroading!

"And this reminds me," added the superintendent some minutes later, leading Alex aside and speaking in a lower voice. "We expect to start construction on the Yellow Creek branch in six weeks, and will be wanting an 'advance guard' of three or four heady, resourceful operators with the construction train, or on ahead. Would you like to go? and your friend Orr? There'll be plenty of excitement before we are through."

"I'd like nothing better, sir, or Orr either, I know," declared Alex with immediate interest. "But where will the excitement come in, sir?"

"You have heard the talk of the K. & Z. also running a line to the new gold field from Red Deer? And that they were held up by right-of-way trouble? Well, we have just learned that that was all a bluff; that they have been quietly making preparations, and are about to start construction almost immediately. And you see what that means?"

"A race for the Yellow pass?"

"A race—and more than that. Did you ever read of the great war between the Santa Fe and the Rio Grande for the Grand Canyon of Colorado? Regularly organized bands of fighting men on either side, and pitched battles? Well, I don't anticipate matters coming to that point between us and the K. & Z., but I wouldn't be surprised if it came near it before we are through. The lines traverse wild country, and the K. & Z. people have men in their construction department who would pull up track or cut wires as soon as light a pipe. In the latter case they would cut at critical times. There is where an operator with a head for difficulties might prove invaluable."

"I would be more than glad to tackle it, sir," agreed Alex enthusiastically.

"Very well then. You may consider yourself, and your friend Orr, appointed. And if you know of anyone else of the same brand, you might suggest him," the superintendent concluded.

"I don't think I do, sir—at the moment," Alex responded.

The week succeeding brought Alex a suggestion.



XVII

WILSON AGAIN DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

It was decidedly warm the following Monday noon at Bonepile, and Wilson Jennings, his coat off, but wearing the fancy Mexican sombrero that the Bar-O cowmen had given him, sat in the open window to catch the breeze that blew through from the rear. From the window Wilson could not see the wagon-trail toward the hills to the west. Thus was it that the low thud of hoofs first told him of someone's hurried approach.

Starting to his feet, he stepped to the end of the platform. At sight of a horseman coming toward him at full speed, and leading a second horse, saddled, but riderless, Wilson gazed in surprise. Wonder increased when as the rider drew nearer he recognized Muskoka Jones, the big Bar-O cowman.

"What is it, Muskoka?" he shouted as the ponies approached.

The cow-puncher pulled up all-standing within a foot of the platform.

"There's been an explosion at the Pine Lode, kid, and ten men are bottled up somewhere in the lower level. Two men got in through a small hole—the mouth of the mine is blocked—and one of them is tapping on the iron pump-pipe. Bartlett, the mine boss, thinks it may be telegraph ticking—that maybe Young knows something about that. Will you come up and listen?

"You see, if they knew what was what inside, they'd know what they could do. They are afraid to blast the big rock that's blocking the mouth for fear of bringing loosened stuff down on the men who have been caught."

Wilson was running for the station door. "I'll explain to the despatcher," he shouted over his shoulder.

"I, I, X," responded the despatcher.

"There has been an explosion at the Pine Lode mine," sent Wilson rapidly, "and a man has been sent to take me there to try and read some tapping from the men inside. Can you give 144 and the Mail clearance from Q and let me go up?"

"Some tapping? What—Oh, I understand. OK! Go ahead," ticked the despatcher. "Get back as soon as possible."

"I will."

"All right, Muskoke," cried Wilson, hastening forth, struggling into his coat as he ran.

"Get round thar," shouted the cowboy, swinging the spare pony to the platform. Wilson went into the saddle with a neat bound.

"Say, you've seen a hoss before, kid," observed Muskoka with surprise as he threw over the reins.

"Sure I have. Used to spend my summer vacations on a farm. Can ride a bit standing up," said Wilson, with pride.

They swung their animals about together, and were off on the jump. As the two ponies stretched out to their full stride the cowboy eyed Wilson's easy seat with approval. "Well, kid," he observed after a moment's silence, "next time I come across a dude I'll git him to do his tricks before I brand him. I don't see but what you sit about as good as I do."

Wilson's pleased smile gave place to gravity as he returned to the subject of the explosion. "When did it happen?" he asked.

"Early this morning. Just after the men went in. They're not sure, but think it was powder stored at the foot of the shaft down to the lower level. The main lead of the Pine Lode, you know, runs straight into the mountain, not down; and the shaft to the lower level is a ways in. We heard the noise at the Bar-O.

"There's nothing much to see, or do, though," the cowman added as they raced along neck and neck. "A big rock just over the entrance came down, and when they got the dirt away they found it had bottled the thing up like a cork. It's that they are afraid to blast until they know how the men are fixed inside. Hoover and Young got in through a small hole at the top, Hoover about half an hour before Young. He started tapping on the pipe too, then stopped. They don't know what happened to him."

Twenty minutes' hard riding brought them to the foothills. Still at the gallop the ponies were urged up a winding rocky trail, and finally a tall black chimney and a group of rough buildings came into view.

"There it is," said the cowboy, indicating a ledge just above.

As they went forward, still at full speed, Wilson gazed toward the mine entrance with some astonishment. Mine disasters he had always thought of as scenes of great excitement—people running to and fro, wringing their hands, excited crowds held back by ropes, and men calling and shouting. Here, about a spot but little distinguished from the rest of the rocky, sparsely-treed mountain side, was gathered a group of perhaps fifty men, some sitting on beams and rocks, others moving quietly about, all smoking.

On their being discovered, however, there was a stir, and as Muskoka and the boy dismounted at the foot of a rough path and ascended there was a general movement of the miners and cowmen to meet them.

"I got him," Muskoka announced briefly to a grizzle-haired man who met them at the top. "This is Bartlett, the mine boss," he said to Wilson by way of introduction. The boss nodded.

"The tapping's going on yet, is it, Joe?"

"No. It's stopped, just like Hoover's did," was the gloomy response. "And just when we were getting onto it ourselves."

The speaker held up a small board pencilled with figures and letters. "Redding there hit on the idea that maybe Young was knocking out the numbers of letters in the alphabet, and we made this table, and just found out we had it right when the tapping stopped. That was twenty minutes ago, and we haven't had another knock since."

"Let's see it. What did you get?"

"There—'20, 7, 5, 20, 21, 16'—'T G E T U P.' Something about 'can't get up,' we figured it. But it's not enough to be of any use.

"And there's not another man here can wriggle in through the hole," went on the boss, turning toward the great rock which sealed the mouth of the mine. "A dozen of 'em tried it, and Redding got stuck so we had to get a rope on him. Nearly pulled his legs off."

Wilson made his way forward and examined the strangely blocked entrance. The small hole referred to was a triangular-shaped opening about a foot in height and some sixteen inches in width, apparently just at the roof of the gallery. Some minutes Wilson stood studying it, pondering. Finally he turned about with an air of decision and returned to Muskoka and the mine boss.

"I have a plan," he announced. "If you will go back to the station again, Muskoke, I'll send for another operator, and go in the mine myself. Two operators could talk backwards and forwards easily on the piping. And—"

"But whar's the other operator?" interrupted the cowboy.

"There is a freight due at the station in about twenty-five minutes. I can give you a message to hand the engineer for the operator at Ledges, the next station—a message asking the despatcher to send the Ledges operator down on the Mail. Someone could wait for him, and if there is no hitch he'd be here inside of an hour and a half."

"That'll work!" exclaimed the boss. "That's it! You'll go, Muskoke?"

"Sartenly. I'll get a fresh hoss, and wait fer him myself." Wilson, finding an envelope in his pocket, dropped to a boulder and began writing.

* * * * *

"W. B. J., Exeter," he scribbled. "Am at the mine. The tapping has stopped. No one else can go in, so I am going myself. Please send down operator from Ledges to read my tapping if I am unable to return.

"Jennings."

* * * * *

"Redding! Whar's Red?" shouted Muskoka as he folded the message.

"Here. What?"

"I'm going back to the station for another operator. I'm going to take your Johnny hoss. Mine's blowed."

"Sure yes," agreed the owner, and with a "Good luck, kid," Muskoka was clattering down the path.

"Now, Mr. Bartlett, will you please explain the plan of things inside; just how the tunnel runs?" requested Wilson.

"Have a seat and I'll draw it," said the boss, setting the example. He turned the board bearing the fragmentary message, and Wilson dropped down beside him.

"The main gallery, the old lead, runs straight in, at about this dip down," he said, drawing as he spoke. "Runs back 550 feet, and ends. That was where the old lead petered out.

"Here, about 200 feet from the entrance, is a vertical shaft, 90 feet, that we put down to pick up the old Pine-Knot lead. It's from the foot of that the new gallery, the lower level, starts. It slopes off just under the old lead—so—330 feet, there's a fault, and it cants up 12 feet—so—then on down again at a bit sharper dip, nearly 600 feet; then another fault and a drop, and about 50 feet more.

"It's down there at the end we think most of the men have been caught, but some may have been near the shaft. The pumping-pipe where Hoover and Young must have been tapping is here, half way between the first and second faults, where it comes down through a boring from the old gallery. It must have been at that point, because we had disconnected two leaking sections just below there only this morning."

"How do you get down the shaft to the lower level?" Wilson asked.

"There was a ladder, but it was smashed by the explosion. Hoover, the first man in, came out for a rope, so I suppose that's there now. Young must have gone down by it.

"Hoover also reported that the roof of the old gallery was in bad shape just over the shaft. That's the particular reason we are afraid to blast the rock here until we know whether any of the men were caught at the bottom of the pit."

Wilson arose and began removing his collar. "How about water, Mr. Bartlett, since the pump is not working?" he inquired.

"Unless the explosion tapped new water, there'll be no danger for twenty-four hours at least. But if the drain channel of the lower gallery has been filled the floor will be very slippery," the mine boss added. "It's slate, and we left it smooth, as a runway for the ore boxes."

As the young operator removed his spotless collar—one similar to that which had so aroused the cowmen's derision on his first day at Bonepile—without a smile one of the very men who had formed the "welcoming committee" that day rubbed his hands on his shirt, took it carefully, and placed it on a clean plank.

"You'll want a lamp. Somebody give the boy a cap and lamp," the boss directed. A dozen of the miners whipped off caps with attached lamps, and trying several, Wilson found one to fit. Then, buttoning his coat and turning up the collar, he made his way to the rock-sealed entrance, and climbed up to the narrow opening.

"I'll tap as soon as I reach the pipe," he said. "So long!" and without more ado crawled head first within and disappeared.

The lamp on his cap lighting up the narrow trough-like tunnel, Wilson easily wormed his way forward ten or twelve feet. Then the passage contracted and became broken and twisted. However, given confidence by the knowledge that others had passed through, Wilson squeezed on, there presently came a widening of the hole, then a black opening, and with a final effort he found himself projecting into the black depths of the empty gallery.

Below him the debris sloped to the floor. Pulling himself free, he slid and scrambled down, and quickly was on his feet, breathing with relief. Only pausing to brush some of the dust from his clothes, Wilson hastened forward.

Two hundred feet distant a windlass took shape in the obscurity. He reached it, and the black opening of the shaft to the lower level was at his feet. Looking, he found the rope the mine boss had spoken of. It was secured to one of the windlass supports, and disappeared into the depths on the opposite side of the pit. Directly below was the shattered wreck of the ladder.

Leaning over, Wilson shouted, "Hello! Hello!" The words crashed and echoed in the shaft and about him, but there was no reply. Once more he shouted, then resolutely suppressing his instinctive shrinking, he made his way about to the rope, carefully lowered himself, and began descending hand under hand.

Wilson had not gone far when with apprehension he found the rope becoming wet and slippery with drip from the rocks above. Despite a tightened grip his hands began to slip. In alarm he wound his feet about the rope. Still he slipped. To dry a hand on his sleeve, he freed it. Instantly with a cry he found himself shooting downward. He clutched with hands, feet and knees, but onward he plunged. In the light of his lamp the jagged broken timbers of the shoring shot up by him. He would be dashed to pieces.

But desperately he fought, and at last got the rope clamped against the corner of a heel, and the speed was retarded. A moment after he landed with an impact that broke his hold on the rope and sent him in a heap on his back.

Rising, Wilson thankfully discovered he had escaped injury other than a few bruises, and gazed about him. At first sight he appeared to be in the bottom of a well filled with broken water-soaked timbers and gray, dripping rock. He knew there must be an exit, however, and set about looking for it, at the same time listening and watching shrinkingly for signs of anyone buried in the heap of stone and timber. Not a sound save the monotonous drip of seeping water was to be heard, however, and presently behind a shield of planking he located the black mouth of a small opening.

Dropping to his knees, he crawled through, and stood upright in a downward sloping gallery similar to that above—the "lower level."

Once more he shouted. "Hello! Hello!" The clashing echoes died away without response, and he started forward.

Scarcely had he taken a half dozen steps when without warning his feet shot from under him and he went down on his back with a crash, barely saving his head with his hands. The smooth hard rock was as slippery as ice from the water flowing over it. Wondering if this icy declivity had anything to do with the failure of Hoover and Young to return, Wilson arose and went on more cautiously.

As he proceeded the walking became more and more treacherous. Several times he again went down, saving himself by sinking onto his outstretched hands.

On rising from one of these falls Wilson discovered something which sent him ahead with new concern. A few yards farther he halted with an exclamation on the brink of a yellow stretch of water that met the gallery roof twenty feet beyond him.

Blankly he gazed at it. Then he recalled the "fault" the mine boss had spoken of—an abrupt rise of the gallery twelve feet. This must be it. Its drain had choked, and filled it with water.

But both Hoover and Young had passed it! The pipe they had tapped upon was beyond. They must have waded boldly in, dove or ducked down, and come up on the other side. At the thought of following them in this Wilson drew back. Had he not better return?

Could he, though? Could he ascend a rope down which he had been unable to prevent himself sliding? The answer was obvious.

Desperately Wilson decided to venture the water, to reach those he now knew were on the other side, and the pumping-pipe. In preparation he first securely wrapped the matches he carried in notepaper taken from an envelope, and placed them in the top of the miner's hat. Then removing his shoes, to give him firmer footing, he stepped into the yellow pool and carefully made his way forward. Six feet from the point at which the water met the top of the gallery the water was up to his chin, and he saw he must swim for it, and dive. Without pause, lest he should lose his nerve, he struck out, reached the roof, took a deep breath, and ducked down.

Three quick, hard strokes, and he arose, and with a gasp found himself at the surface again. A few strokes onward in the darkness, and his hands met a rough wall, over which the water was draining as over the brink of a dam.

At the same moment a sound of dull blows reached his ears. Spluttering and blinking, Wilson drew himself up. A shout broke from him. Far distant and below was a point of light.

"Hello!" he cried. Immediately came a chorus of response, as though many were excitedly shouting at once. Unable to distinguish anything from the jangle of echoes, Wilson cried back, "Are you all safe?"

Again came the clashing, incomprehensible shout.

"I'm coming down," he called, though not sure that they heard him. Producing the matches from the crown of the hat, he found they had come through dry, and after some difficulty lighting one against the side of another, he re-lit the lamp. While at this, voices continued to come up to him, evidently shouting something. But try as he could he was unable to make out what was said. It was all a reverberating clamor, as though a hundred people were talking at once.

As the lamp spluttered up, after the ducking which had extinguished it, Wilson gazed down the gallery before him with a touch of new dismay. The water was flowing over it in a thin, glossy coat, and it was considerably steeper than on the outer side of the fault. Apparently the only thing to do was to slide.

Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go. The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray damp walls were passing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he kept his feet foremost.

Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid, and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were, "The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!" Then Wilson suddenly recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.

Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared. He clutched with heels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.

About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces. While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even angrily.

"Why didn't you hang on, you idiot?" demanded a voice.

"Who is it, anyway? It's a stranger!"

"And a boy!" said another.

Wilson recovered his scattered wits, and quickly explained who he was and what he had come for. Immediately there was a joyful shout. "We'll be out inside of an hour!" cried one.

"But how am I going to get up to the pipe?" demanded Wilson.

"We are cutting footholds up the incline.

"White, get back on the job," directed the speaker, who Wilson later learned was the fire-boss.

"You brought him down with you," he added, to the boy.

The man spoken to began creeping up the water-covered slope dragging a pick, and Wilson turned to look about him. The eleven men in the party, not including the man on the slope, were crowded together on the level floor of what evidently was the lower fault of the lead. From the darkness beyond came the sound of water trickling to a lower level.

"Are all here, and no one hurt?" he asked.

"Hoover and Young, and everybody, and not one scratched," responded the fire-boss. "You were the one nearest hurt.

"You were a mighty plucky youngster," he added, "to come through that water up there."

Wilson interrupted a chorus of hearty assent. "What happened to Hoover and Young at the pipe?" he inquired. "That mystified everybody outside."

"They both caught it coming down, but Hoover lost his hold trying to change hands for tapping, and Young dropped the knife he was knocking with, and slipped fishing for it," the fire-boss explained.

Meantime at the entrance to the mine, a half hour having passed without a knocking on the pipe to announce the arrival inside of the young operator, anxiety began to be felt for his safety also. When another half hour had passed, and there was still no response to frequent tappings of inquiry, the mine-boss, Bartlett, began to stride up and down before the blocked entrance. "I shouldn't have allowed him to go in," he muttered repeatedly. "He was only a boy."

When at length Muskoka Jones reappeared on the scene, and with him the operator from Ledges, Bartlett met them with a gloomy face. At that very moment, however, there was a shout from the men gathered about the pumping-pipe. "He's knocking!" cried a voice.

Bartlett, Muskoka and the Ledges operator went forward on the run. The latter dropped to his knees and placed his ear to the pipe. At the quick smile of comprehension which came into his face a great cheer went up. It was immediately stilled by a gesture from the operator, and in tense silence he caught up a stone, tapped back a signal, then read aloud Wilson's strangely telegraphed words of the safety of the men below, their situation, and the means to be taken to reach them.

And just at sunset the bedraggled but joyful, cheering party of rescuers and rescued emerged from the entrance—Wilson to a reception he will remember as long as he lives.

The most important result of Wilson's courage and resourcefulness, however, was an interview Alex Ward had that evening at Exeter with the division superintendent. Following a recital of Wilson's feat at the mine, Alex added: "You said last week, Mr. Cameron, that I might suggest a third operator for the Yellow Creek construction 'advance guard' of operators. I'd like to suggest Jennings, sir."

"He is appointed, then," said the superintendent. "Go and tell him yourself."



XVIII

WITH THE CONSTRUCTION TRAIN

On a newly-made siding parallel to the main-line tracks, and in the center of a rolling vista of yellow-brown prairie, stood a trampish-looking train of weather-beaten passenger coaches and box-cars. In the sides of the latter small windows had been cut, and from the roofs projected chimneys. North of the train, to a din of clanking, pounding and shoveling, a throng of men were laying ties and rails, driving spikes and tightening bolts, in the construction of further short stretches of track.

It was the Yellow Creek branch "boarding" and construction train, and the laying of the sidings of the newly-created Yellow Creek Junction was the first step in the race of the Middle Western and the K. & Z., some miles below the southern horizon, for the just-discernible break to the southwest in the blue line of the Dog Rib Mountains—the coveted entrance to the new gold fields in the valley beyond.

And here, the first of the construction operators sent forward, Alex had been two days established in the "telegraph-car."

As he had anticipated, Alex was enjoying the experience hugely. It was every bit as good as camping out, he had declared over the wire to Jack—having for an office a table at one end of the old freight-car, sleeping in a shelf-like bunk at the other end, and eating in the rough-and-ready diner with the inspectors, foremen, time-keepers and clerks who shared the telegraph-car with him. As well, the work going on about him was a constant source of interest during Alex's spare moments.

On this, the second day, Alex had been particularly interested in the newly-arrived track-laying machine—which did not actually lay track at all, but by means of roller-bottomed chutes fed out a stream of rails and ties to the men ahead of it. After supper, the wire being silent, Alex made his way amid several trains of track-material already filling completed sidings, for a closer view of the big machine.

There proved to be less to see than he had expected; and having climbed aboard the pilot-car and examined the engine, Alex ascended the tower from which a brakeman controlled the movements of the train.

On his right lay a string of flats piled high with timbers for bridges and culverts. Glancing along them, Alex was surprised to see a man's head cautiously emerge from an opening in the lumber on one of the cars, and quickly disappear on discovering him. A moment after he had a fleeting glimpse of the intruder running low along the side of the train toward the rear.

"Only a hobo," Alex decided on second thought. For numbers of tramps had come through on the material-trains. And presently Alex returned to the telegraph-car.

Shortly after midnight the young operator was awakened by someone running through the car and shouting for Construction Superintendent Finnan. When he caught the word "Fire!" he scrambled into his clothes and leaped to the floor, and out.

Over the tops of the cars in the direction of the track-machine was a dancing glare.

In alarm Alex joined the stream of men dropping to the ground all along the boarding-cars. Dodging through the intervening trains, he brought up with an expression of relief beside, not the track-machine, but a car of bridge material.

Fanned by a brisk wind, flames were spouting from amid the timbers at several points. Already men were pitching the burning beams over the side, however; and finding a shovel, Alex joined those who were smothering them with sand.

"Tramps, sure!" Alex heard another of the shovelers remark angrily. Immediately then he recalled the man he had seen from the track-machine tower, and pausing in his work, he counted the cars back.

It was the same car. Yes; undoubtedly the fire was the careless work of the tramp he had seen running away.

The force of fire fighters was rapidly augmented, and soon, despite the fresh breeze, the last of the burning beams were smothered, and all danger of a general conflagration was past.

It was as Alex at last headed back for the boarding-train that a theory other than the tramp theory of the origin of the fire occurred to him. It came from a sudden recollection of Division Superintendent Cameron's prediction of interference from the K. & Z. "Could that be the real explanation?" he asked himself with some excitement.

The first streak of dawn found Alex again at the scene of the fire, bent on proving or disproving the theory of incendiarism. Climbing aboard the scorched car, he dropped to his knees and began carefully brushing aside the sand with which the burning floor had been covered.

A few minutes' search produced the burned ends of shavings!

"So!—the 'fight' is on!" observed Alex to himself gravely.

With several of the tell-tale fragments in his pocket Alex was about to leap to the ground when Construction Superintendent Finnan appeared. "Good morning, my lad. You beat me here, eh?" he said genially. "Well, what do you make of it?"

Alex sprang down beside him, and produced the charred pine whittlings. "I found these on the bottom of the car, sir. They don't seem to support the careless tramp theory, do they?" Continuing, Alex then told of the man he had seen there the evening before. "Do you think it was the work of the K. & Z., sir?" he concluded.

The superintendent's lips were drawn tight. "Yes; I believe it was. Could you identify the man?"

"I am afraid not, sir. It was getting dusk, and he was five or six car-lengths from me, and running stooped over.

"Perhaps we could follow his footsteps down the side of the train?" Alex suggested.

"Good idea! Lead ahead. There has been a good deal of tramping about, but we may pick them out."

Proceeding to the point several cars distant at which he had seen the stranger on the ground, Alex moved on slowly, carefully inspecting the freshly turned but considerably trampled earth, the superintendent following him.

A car-length beyond, the latter suddenly paused, retraced his steps a few feet, and pointing out three succeeding impressions, exclaimed, "I think we have him, Ward! See? A long step! He was running on his toes."

Aided by the known length of the stride, they continued, following the footprints with comparative ease. Passing the second car from the end, they found the steps shorten, then change to a walk. "Probably turned in between this and the last car," the superintendent observed.

"Yes; here they go," announced Alex, halting at the opening between the two flats. "He stood for a moment, then went on through."

Alex and the superintendent followed, and continued toward the rear of the last car. Half way Alex halted, and with an ejaculation stooped and picked up something white. "A small shaving, sir!"

The official took it. "That decides the matter," he said. "Probably it was sticking to his clothes."

"He sat down here, for some time, did he not?" Alex was pointing to a depression in the earth well under the car, between two ties, and to the marks of bootheels. The superintendent went to his knees and closely examined the impressions left by the heels.

"Good! Look here," he said with satisfaction. "The marks of spurs! Our 'tramp' was a horseman."

Alex turned to look about. "Where would he have kept his horse?"

Superintendent Finnan led the way beyond the cars into the open. A mile distant, and hidden from the boarding-train by the cars on the sidings, was a depression in the prairie bordered with low scrub. "We'll have a look there," he said.

Some minutes later they stood in the bottom of the miniature valley, beside the unmistakably fresh hoofprints of a hobbled pony.

The official was grimly silent as they retraced their steps toward the construction-train. They had almost reached it when Alex, who had been examining the fragments of burned shavings, broke the silence. "Mr. Finnan, let me see the bit of shaving we found by the rear car, please." There was a touch of excitement in Alex's voice, and the superintendent halted.

"What is it?" he asked as he produced the whittling.

Alex glanced at it, and smiling, placed it beside two of the charred fragments in his hand. "Look at these little ridges, sir! The same knife whittled them all. The blade had two small nicks in it.

"All we have to do now, sir, is to find the owner of the knife!"

"A bright idea, Ward! Splendid!" exclaimed the superintendent heartily.

"But," he added as they moved on, "how are we going to find him? We can't very well round up the whole Dog Rib country, and hold a jack-knife inspection."

They came within sight of the bleached-out dining-cars. Basking in the morning sun on the steps of one of the old coaches was the figure of a young Indian, who had come from no one knew where the first day of their arrival, and had attached himself to the kitchen department.

Alex laid his hand on the superintendent's arm. "Mr. Finnan, why not try Little Hawk?"

"It occurred to me just as you spoke. I will. Right now.

"You go on in to breakfast, Ward," he directed. "And say nothing of our suspicions or discoveries."

"Very well, sir."

The members of the telegraph-car party were leaving for the diner as Alex appeared.

"Hello, Ward! Catch the early worm?" inquired one of the track-foremen jocularly.

"You mean, 'did he shoot it?'" corrected a time-clerk.

At this there was a general laugh, and glancing about for an explanation, Alex saw Elder, Superintendent Finnan's personal clerk and aide de camp, hastily remove a cartridge-belt and revolver from his waist and toss them into his bunk.

Elder was the one unpopular man in the telegraph-car. An undersized, aggressively important individual, just out of college, and affecting a stylish khaki hunting-suit, natty leather leggings and a broad-brimmed hat, he bore himself generally as though second in importance only to the construction superintendent himself. And naturally he had promptly been made the butt of the party.

"But you know," gravely observed one of the inspectors, as they took their places about the plain board table in the dining-car, "some of these tramps are dangerous fellows. They'd just as soon pull a gun on you as borrow a dime. So there's nothing like being prepared. Particularly when one carries about such evidence of wealth and rank as friend Elder, here."

At the chuckles which followed the clerk bridled angrily.

"Well, anyway, Ryan," he retorted, "I am ready to fight if one of them interferes with me. I'll not stick up my hands and let him go through me, as you did once."

"Oh, you wouldn't, eh?"

"No, I wouldn't. In fact, I'd like to see anyone make me throw up my hands, even if I didn't have a revolver," Elder went on emphatically. "I'd rather be shot—yes, sir, I'd rather be shot than have to think afterward that I'd been such a weak-kneed coward. And that's what I think of any man who would permit a low-down tramp to go through his pockets."

Loud applause greeted these remarks, clapping, banging of plates, and cries of "Hear, hear!"

"Go it, Elder!"

"Show him up!"

"It's on me. He has me labelled, OK," admitted Ryan with marked humility. "But then, gentlemen, I protest it is hardly fair to compare an ordinary mortal to so remarkably courageous a man as Elder. I claim it is not given many men to be that fearless. Why, 'with half an eye,' as the old grammars say, you can see courage sticking out all over him."

"All right, laugh. But I never showed the white feather to a hobo," Elder repeated scathingly.

"No; but—what is it Kipling, or Shakespeare, says?—'While there's life there's soap?'" observed Ryan, a sudden twinkle appearing in his eye.

The inspector explained the meaning of his facetiously garbled quotation when Elder left the table. The proposal he made was greeted with enthusiasm.

Work had been started on the branch road itself that morning, and on returning to the telegraph-car at noon the superintendent's clerk found most of the party there before him, preparing for dinner. An animated debate which was in progress ceased as he entered, and someone exclaimed, "Here he is now. He'd soon straighten them up."

"What is the trouble, men?" inquired Elder, with the air of a sergeant-major.

"Our two head-spikers had a disagreement this morning, and have gone across the yards to settle it," explained one of the time-keepers through his towel. "Couldn't you go after them, and interfere? They may put each other out of commission. Refused to listen to me or the foreman."

"The childish idiots! Certainly," agreed Elder, turning back to the door. "Which way did they go?"

"Straight across the yard. But hadn't you better take your gun?" the time-clerk suggested. "They are a pair of pretty tough customers."

"Well—perhaps I had, since you mention it," Elder responded. Going to his bunk, he secured and buckled on the belt, drew the revolver from its holster to examine it, and set forth grimly. As he disappeared the men in the car broke into barely-subdued splutterings of laughter, and crowding to the door, waited expectantly.

With an air of responsibility and determination the clerk made his way between the adjacent cars. There were six tracks filled with the long trains of construction material. He had passed the fifth, and was stooping beneath the couplings of two flats beyond, when from the other side he heard footsteps.

One hand on the butt of his revolver, he leaped forth. Uttering a choking cry he sprang back. Within a foot of his eyes were the barrels of two big Colt's-pistols, and looking over the tops of them was a villainous handkerchief-masked face.

"Hands up!" ordered the tramp hoarsely.

Elder's hands flew into the air. Immediately, despite his fright, there returned a remembrance of his boast that morning. He half made as though to bring his hands down. Instantly the cold muzzles of the pistols were pressed close beneath his nose. With a wild flutter Elder's fingers shot upward to their fullest stretch.

"Come out!" ordered the tramp.

Quaking, and almost on tiptoes in his effort to keep his hands aloft, Elder obeyed. Lowering one of the pistols and thrusting it into his belt, the tramp reached forward and secured the clerk's revolver, dropping it to the ground beneath his feet.

"Now, Mr. Superintendent," he ordered gruffly, "hand over your roll!"

"Why, I'm not the superintendent," quavered Elder hopefully. "I am—only a clerk."

"Clerk nothing! Don't you think I know a superintendent when I see one? Out with those yellowbacks you drew yesterday, or by gum—" The pistol was again thrust under his nose, and Elder blanched.

"But I'm not the superintendent! Honestly I'm not!" he protested. "I'm only a clerk. And I only get—only get—"

"Yes, come on! You only get?" thundered the tramp.

"I only get thirty-five dollars a month," whispered the clerk.

"Only thirty-five bones a month? Well, by gum!" The tramp looked the shrinking clerk over with unspeakable contempt. "Why, there ain't a Dago shoveler in the outfit doesn't get more than that!

"Very well, then," he conceded loftily. "You can keep your coppers. I never let it be said I rob the poor.

"But I tell you what I will have," he went on suddenly. "Them clothes are sure too good for any man not getting as much money as a Dago. These," indicating his own tattered and grimy garments, "are more in your line. Come on! Peel off!"

The trimly-dressed clerk stared aghast.

"You surely—don't mean—"

"I surely DO mean! Shell off!" roared the tramp.

And utterly beyond belief as it was, ten minutes later Elder was surveying himself in the unspeakable rags of the hobo, and the latter, before him, was ridiculously attired in his own natty, smaller garments.

Having then removed Elder's fancy Stetson and clamped his own greasy and battered christy down to the clerk's ears, the tramp had one further humiliation. Pointing to a clump of black, oily waste hanging from a nearby axle-box, he ordered, "Pull out a bunch of that!"

Slowly, wondering, Elder did so.

"No one would believe you were a genuine hobo with such a scandalously clean face as that. Rub the waste over it," commanded the tramp.

This was too much. Blindly Elder turned to escape. Instantly both pistols were once more at his head. And in final abject surrender he slowly rubbed the black car-grease upon his cheeks.

"Very good. A little on the forehead now," directed the relentless tramp. "Now the ears.

"Go on!... Very good.

"Now you may go."

Frantically Elder spun about and dove between the cars. As he did so, behind him roared out six quick pistol shots.

Blindly he scrambled under the next train. Shouts rose ahead of him. "Help, help!" he cried. "Tramps! Tramps! Help!"

From the boarding-cars broke out a hubbub of excitement. "Tramps! Tramps!" he shrilled, scuttling beneath the third train.

On the other side he suddenly pulled up. He had forgotten his outlandish appearance! What if—

Men sprang into view from between the cars farther down. "Here he is!" they shouted, instantly heading for him.

"It's me! Elder!" cried the apparent tramp.

More men appeared. "The tramp who burned the car!" rose the cry. "Lynch him! Lynch him!"

Elder dove back the way he had come. The trackmen raced for the nearest openings, and dove after.

As Elder dashed for the next train several of his pursuers sprang into view but a car-length away. "Head him off! Don't let him get away!" they shouted.

Madly Elder rushed on, darted beneath the last string of flats, and on out into the open.

A figure was approaching on horseback. He recognized Superintendent Finnan. Uttering a cry of hope, he headed for him. At sight of the desperately running figure, with its grimy face and flapping rags, the superintendent pulled up in sheer amazement. When the stream of men broke through the train and poured after, yelping like a pack of hounds, he urged his horse forward.

"Catch him! Stop him!" shouted the pursuers.

"It's me! Elder!" screamed the clerk. "Elder! Elder!"

A big Irishman, a pick-handle in his hand, was gaining on the supposed tramp at every bound, roaring, "I'll fix ye! I'll fix ye, ye vermin!"

With a last desperate sprint the flying clerk reached the horse and threw himself at the superintendent's stirrups. "It's Elder, Mr. Finnan!" he gasped. "Elder! Elder!"

The superintendent gazed down into the blackened face an instant, then suddenly doubled up over his horse's head, rocking and shaking in a convulsion of laughter. The action saved the clerk from the Irishman. The descending pick-handle halted in mid-air, the wielder gazed open-mouthed at the convulsed official, then suddenly grasping the clerk's head, twisted it about, and staggered back, roaring and shouting at the top of his lungs. As fast as the others arrived the riot of merriment increased; and when presently the superintendent moved on toward the train, the crestfallen clerk still at his stirrup, they were the center of a hilariously howling mob.

The final blow came when Elder entered the telegraph-car. Carefully laid out in his bunk were the garments he had surrendered to the "tramp."

The incident had its final good result, however. The mangling of Elder's vanity disclosed an unsuspected streak of common-sense and manliness, and a day or so after he frankly thanked Ryan, the perpetrator of the joke, for "having put him right." And finally he became one of the most popular men on the train.



XIX

THE ENEMY'S HAND AGAIN, AND A CAPTURE

"Good morning, Ward. Any word of the progress made by the K. & Z.?" inquired Construction Superintendent Finnan the following morning, Sunday, looking into the telegraph-car.

Alex threw down his towel and stepped to the instrument table. "Yes, sir; here's one that came late last night.

"It says they started from Red Deer yesterday morning, and made nearly three and a half miles."

The superintendent looked somewhat glum as he read the message. "That beats us by half a mile," he remarked. "If the news is reliable, that is. They may plan to give out inflated distances, in order to discourage us. That would be a small matter to them, after trying to burn us out."

"There has been no sign of Little Hawk yet, sir?" Alex inquired.

"No. I am beginning to think the rascal has gone over to the K. & Z.," said the superintendent, turning away. At the door he paused. "By the way, Ward, remind me to give you a message to-morrow morning asking for two more operators. We will have made six or seven miles by Monday night, and will be running the train down the branch. And the temporary station is almost completed," he added, glancing from the window toward a box-car which had been lifted from its trucks and placed on a foundation of ties beside the main-line tracks.

Alex promised gladly. It meant the coming of Jack Orr and Wilson Jennings.

Following breakfast, the morning being a beautiful one, Alex determined on a walk, and set off along the main-line to the west. Two miles distant he struck a small bridge and a deep, dry creek-bed, and turning south along its border, headed for the distant rail-head of the new branch.

At a bend in the creek some two hundred yards from the track-machine and its string of flat-cars, Alex sharply paused. Two saddled ponies were hobbled together in the creek-bottom. Casting a glance toward the construction-train, Alex leaped into the gully, out of sight.

He had not a doubt that the horses belonged to men in the service of the K. & Z., and that something was on foot similar to the attempted burning of the bridge-car.

What should he do? Return the three miles to the junction? or continue on to the track-machine? For undoubtedly the owners of the horses were there; and the machine, he knew, was in the sole charge of an oiler.

Alex decided on the latter course, and making his way along the bed of the stream, passed the hobbled ponies, and on to the new bridge fifty feet in rear of the construction-train.

As he there halted, low voices reached Alex's ears. Peering cautiously out, and seeing no one, he crept forth, and made his way along the side of the embankment toward the train. A few feet from the rear car Alex came upon a three-wheeled track velocipede, used by Elder, the superintendent's clerk in running backwards and forwards between the rail-head and the junction. Pausing, he debated whether he should not put it on the rails, and make a run for the junction immediately. Finally Alex concluded first to learn something further of what was going on, and to count on the velocipede as a means of making his escape in case of emergency. To this end he proceeded cautiously to place the little jigger in a position from which he could quickly swing it onto the irons. Then continuing forward under the edge of the train, he reached the pilot-car.

"Yes; it's a first class machine—the best on the market."

The voice was that of the oiler. Apparently he had been showing the strangers over the track-machine. For a brief space Alex wondered whether after all his suspicions were justified. But at once came the thought, "Why had the strangers hidden their horses in the creek-bottom if they were genuine visitors?" and he remained quiet.

"Where is the boiler?" inquired a new voice, evidently one of the owners of the horses.

"There is none. The steam comes from the engine, behind," the oiler responded. "Here—it comes in here."

"So! And does the machine get out of order very easily?" asked a second voice.

There was something in the tone that caused Alex to prick up his ears.

"Almost never. It's all simple. Nothing intricate," the man in charge replied.

"I suppose it could be put out of order, though—say, you fellows were to go on strike, and wanted to disable things? Eh?"

"Huh! That's rather a funny question. But I suppose it could. Anything could, for that matter."

"What do they pay you, as oiler?"

"Say, what are you two fellows driving at?" the oiler demanded sharply.

There was a momentary silence, during which Alex imagined the two strangers looking questioningly at one another. Then one of them spoke.

"Look here, whatever you get, we will give you a hundred dollars a month extra to put this machine out of order two or three times a week. Nothing very bad, but just enough to lose two or three hours' work each time. We are—well, never mind who we are. The thing stands this way: We have a big bet on that the K. & Z. will win in this building race for Yellow Creek, and—well, you see the point, I guess. What do you say?"

During the pause that followed Alex waited breathlessly, and with growing disappointment. Was the oiler considering the bribe?

"Well," said the oiler at length, "is that your best offer? Couldn't you make it a thousand?"

"A thousand! Nonsense—"

"Two thousand, then."

"What do you mean—"

"Just this!" cried the oiler, and simultaneously there was a rush of feet and a sound of blows. Exultingly Alex was scrambling forth to go to the oiler's assistance, when just above him was a crash of falling bodies, and a figure bounded over the side of the car and rolled sprawling down the embankment.

It was the plucky oiler, and Alex shrank back in horror as the man came to a stop flat on his back, and lay immovable, blood trickling from a wound over his eyes.

Overhead was the sound of someone getting to their feet. "He nearly got you," said a voice.

"Nearly. But I guess I 'got him' one better."

"Is he safe for awhile, do you think?"

As the two men moved to the edge of the car and apparently gazed down at the prostrate figure in the ditch, Alex shrank back with apprehension on his own account.

"Perhaps we'd better make sure of him."

"All right. Here is a bit of rope."

Hurriedly Alex crawled beneath the nearby truck, behind the wheels, and a tall figure in the garb of a cowboy dropped to the ground before him and ran down to the still unconscious oiler. Binding the prostrate man's feet together at the ankles, the cowman turned the oiler on his face, and secured his hands behind his back. Turning him again face up, he studied his eyes a moment, and announcing, "Good job. Only stunned," he returned to the car and drew himself up on it.

"Now what'll we do?" inquired his companion. "That idiot has knocked our plans to pieces. We can't go back and say we neither made the deal, nor did anything else for our money."

"We'll have to tear things up ourselves," said the first man decisively. "Let us see what we can do in the engine-room here."

The footsteps passed into the engine-house, and Alex at once crawled forth, to make his way back to the velocipede.

As he emerged from beneath the car he paused to glance down at the prostrate oiler. Should he leave him lying there? It did not seem right, despite the obvious necessity of heading for the junction without a moment's delay.

As he hesitated, the eyes of the prostrate man flickered, and opened. Alex dodged back, lest the oiler should betray his presence to the men on the car. As he dropped down there came the recollection that there were two seats on the velocipede. Why not take the man with him, if he sufficiently recovered? Good!

Anxiously Alex watched as the stunned man blinked about him. Finally comprehension, then a hot flush of rage appeared in the oiler's face, and with a violent kick he twisted about toward the car.

Springing into view, Alex caught the oiler's startled eye, and made a warning gesture. The man stared dully for a moment, then nodded, and on Alex's further urgent signalling, dropped back and again closed his eyes. Alex produced and opened his jack-knife.

The men above were busily fumbling about in the engine-room. Only pausing to make sure they were entirely occupied, Alex slipped forth, cautiously crept down the embankment, reached the bound man, and with a slash of the knife freed his feet and hands.

"Let us slip back to the velocipede—it's ready to throw on the rails—and make a dash of it for the junction," Alex whispered. The oiler arose, and with one eye on the engine-room door they crept up under the edge of the car, and on toward the rear of the train.

They reached the little track-car, and cautiously lifted it onto the rails.

"Better push it a ways," the oiler advised in a low voice. "They might hear the rumble, with our weight on it."

Gently they set the velocipede in motion. With the first move one of the wheels gave forth a shrill screech. The two paused as the sounds on the pilot-car immediately ceased.

"If we hear one of them going to the edge to look for me, we'll make a run of it," said the oiler.

"They may go on tiptoe," Alex pointed out.

The suggestion was followed by a sharp exclamation from the head of the train. "The oiler's gone!" cried a voice. Simultaneously there was the sound of someone springing to the ground, and Alex and the oiler scrambled into the velocipede seats, Alex facing the rear, and threw themselves against the handles. The oilless wheel again screeched, and from the pilot-car rose the cry, "Around at the end! Quick!"

Alex and the oiler wrenched the handles backwards and forwards with all their might, and the little car leaped ahead. Before they had gained full headway, however, one of the machine-wreckers appeared about the end of the train, and with a cry to his companion, dashed after. He ran like a deer, and despite the increasing speed of the velocipede, quickly gained upon them.

"He'll get us!" Alex exclaimed.

"The creek bridge is just ahead. That'll stop him," said the oiler.

The second man appeared, and joined in the chase.

The first runner saw the bridge, and redoubled his efforts. In spite of their best endeavors, he drew rapidly nearer. A hand shot out to clutch the oiler's shoulder.

It reached him—and with a rumble they were on and over the bridge, and their pursuer had sprawled forward flat on his face.

He was on his feet again like a wildcat, however, and crossing the bridge three ties at a time, leaped to the flat ground beside the track, and was again after the velocipede like a race-horse.

Try as they would, Alex and the oiler could get no more speed out of the low-geared machine, and with alarm Alex saw the runner once more drawing near. The second man they had outdistanced.

Closer the cowman came. "Stop!" he shouted. "Stop! You may as well! I've got you!"

Determinedly they held on, working the handles desperately, Alex watching the grim, clean-shaven face and the fluttering dotted handkerchief about the pursuing man's neck with a curious fascination.

At last he was parallel with them. Still running, he drew his revolver. "Stop!" he ordered. "Stop, or I'll put one through you!"

"Keep it up, boy," the oiler directed sharply. "He daresn't fire. He daresn't add murder to it. And he'd be heard at the junction."

The runner snapped his gun back into its holster, and putting on an extra spurt, rushed slanting up the embankment, and threw himself bodily upon the oiler. They tumbled off backwards in a struggling heap. Throwing his weight against the handles, Alex stopped the velocipede, sprang off, and dashed to the oiler's assistance.

The cowman's revolver had fallen from his belt. Alex caught it up and pressed it against the back of the man's head. "Stop it! Let go!" he cried. "I'll certainly shoot!"

The man half relaxed, and glared up sideways. Alex brought the muzzle to his eyes, and slowly he freed his hold on the oiler. "Oh, very well," he muttered with a curse. "You win."

"No—don't!" said Alex, as the enraged oiler spun about to strike the half-prostrate man. "He's down, and has given up."

At that moment interruption came from another quarter. It was a shrill cry from the direction of the creek-bed, and turning, all three saw a round-shouldered figure on horseback scrambling from the creek-bottom, leading the ponies of the two would-be wreckers, and the second cowman running toward him.

"It's Little Hawk!" Alex exclaimed.

The cowboy reached the Indian, sprang at him, there was a terrific scrimmage, and the white man sprang from the melee with the bridle of one of the ponies, leaped into the saddle, and was off across the prairie in a whirl of dust.

So interested had Alex been in the second conflict that momentarily he had forgotten the man on the ground before him. He was reminded by suddenly finding himself sprawling upon his back, and regaining his feet, found their prisoner also racing off at top speed. The oiler darted after, but quickly gave it up. He was no match for the light-footed cowman.

Seeing the pistol still in Alex's hand, he cried, "Shoot! Shoot him!"

Alex raised the revolver, faltered, and lowered it. "No. I can't," he said.

"I can!" The oiler darted back and wrested it from Alex's hand. As he whirled about to fire, Alex grasped his arm. "No! Wait! Look!" he exclaimed. "The Indian is after him!"

Turning, the oiler saw the Indian, with his own and one of the other ponies, storming across the ground in pursuit of the runner. Silently they watched.

As he heard the pounding hoofs behind him, the fleeing cowboy glanced about, and set on at greater speed than ever. Quickly, however, the horses cut down the distance between them.

The Indian leaned toward the second pony, took something from the saddle-horn, and began to adjust it on his arm.

"He's going to lassoo him!" said Alex breathlessly.

Nearer drew the Indian to the fleeing man, and hand and lassoo went into the air and began to weave circles. Tensely the two on the embankment watched.

Closer the horses drew. Wider the circle of the lassoo extended.

Suddenly it leaped through the air like a great snake. The runner saw the shadow of it, and with a cry that they heard, half turned and threw out his arms to ward it off. The loop was too large, the cowman missed it, and as the Indian pulled up in a cloud of dust, he whipped in the slack, and the noose tightened fairly about the renegade's waist. An instant after, however, the second pony, plunging ahead of the Indian's, threw the rider forward, slackening the lariat. In a twinkle the cowman had loosened the noose, and was wriggling out of it. He had freed one foot before the Indian had recovered himself. Then with a terrific yank the horseman snapped in the slack, the cowman's feet flew from under him, and with one foot taut in the air, caught at the ankle, he lay cursing and shaking an impotent fist.

As Alex and the oiler ran forward the Indian sat on his horse like a statue, holding the lariat taut.

The oiler reached the prisoner first, revolver in hand.

"Get up, you!" he ordered. Sullenly the man obeyed. Removing a handkerchief from about his neck, the oiler gave it to Alex, who securely bound the man's hands behind him. Throwing off the lassoo, they turned toward the Indian. With some wonder, they saw he was carefully examining the hoofs of the pony he was leading. Concluding the inspection with a grunt, he came forward, winding up the rope, and halted before them.

"You hoss?" he asked of the prisoner, pointing over his shoulder.

The cowboy looked at him contemptuously, and responded, "Well, what if it is, Old Ugly-Mug?"

The oiler brought up the pistol. "I don't know why he wants to know, but you go ahead and tell him!" he ordered threateningly. "He's twice the man you are. Is it your horse?"

"Yes."

Little Hawk turned away with a grunt of satisfaction, and mounting his pony, rode off towards the junction.

What the Indian meant Alex learned when, with their prisoner between them, he and the oiler approached the boarding-train, and met Little Hawk returning with Superintendent Finnan.

"That him!" said the Indian briefly as they drew near. "Him burn cars!"

From the prisoner came a hissing gasp. As Alex turned upon him with a sharp ejaculation of understanding, however, the man assumed an indifferent air, and strode on nonchalantly.

"What do you want?" he demanded insolently of the superintendent. "Can't a man pull off a—a little joke without these idiots of yours going out of their heads? It was nothing more than a bit of fun me and my mate was having," he affirmed boldly.

Superintendent Finnan smiled sardonically. "That is what the K. & Z. call it, eh?"

Alex, still with a hand on the prisoner's arm, felt him start. But brazenly the man replied, "K. & Z.? What's the K. & Z.? A ranch brand? I never heard of it."

On a thought Alex stepped forward and whispered a word in the official's ear.

"Go ahead," said the superintendent.

"I'm going to search your pockets," Alex announced, stepping back to the side of the renegade cowman. "No objection, I suppose, since you don't know what K. & Z. means?"

"Search ahead," agreed the prisoner, half smiling. "And good luck to you if you find anything to connect me—if you find anything," he corrected quickly.

From a trouser pocket Alex drew out a large jack-knife. With a suspicion of trembling he opened one of the blades and examined it, while the owner regarded him curiously. With a shake of the head the young operator opened the second blade. A quick smile of triumph lit up his face, and delving into a vest pocket, he brought forth a scrap of paper, unfolded it, and took out a fragment of charred pine shaving.

Turning his back on the now anxiously watching, though still puzzled, owner of the knife, he held the shaving against the edge of the blade. The superintendent bent over it, and uttered a delighted "Exactly!"

Triumphantly Alex turned toward the prisoner, and held the hand with the knife and shaving before him. "Does this help you to recall what K. & Z. means?" he asked.

"Recall? I don't—"

"See these two little ridges on the shaving? See these two little nicks in the blade?"

With a hoarse cry the man flung himself backward, and bound as he was, began struggling like a madman. Alex, the superintendent and the Indian were to the oiler's assistance in a twinkle, however, and a few minutes later saw the renegade in their midst on the way to the boarding train—and, as it finally proved, to the jail at Exeter.

"I don't know who to thank most," said Superintendent Finnan later—"you, Ward, or the oiler, or Little Hawk. Nor what appreciation to suggest higher up."

"You might make it a blanket and Winchester for the Indian, and a purse for the oiler, for the knocks he got and the bribe he refused," Alex suggested.

"And yourself?"

"Oh, just let me keep the rascal's knife, as a memento," responded Alex modestly.

"Very well; we'll agree on that—for the present," said the superintendent.



XX

A PRISONER

When the early-morning mail train stopped at Yellow Creek Junction on Tuesday, Alex was at the little box-car station to greet Jack Orr and Wilson Jennings. Jack, who had not met Wilson before the latter boarded the train at Bonepile, had taken a liking to the easterner at once, and confided to Alex that he was "the real goods," despite the "streak of dude."

"We ought to have some good times together," Jack predicted, as, with lively interest, he and Wilson accompanied Alex back toward the nondescript but businesslike-looking boarding-train.

Jack's hope, as far as it concerned the three boys being together, was soon shattered. As they reached the telegraph-car, Superintendent Finnan appeared, and having cordially shaken hands with Jack and Wilson, turned to Alex. "Ward," he said, "I have just decided to send you on to the Antelope viaduct. A courier has brought word from Norton, the engineer in charge, that trouble appears to be brewing amongst his Italian laborers, and I would like to get in direct touch with him. The telegraph line was strung within two miles of the bridge yesterday, and should reach Norton's camp to-day. How soon could you start?"

"As soon as I have breakfast, sir," responded Alex, stifling his disappointment. "It's twenty miles there, isn't it, Mr. Finnan? How am I to go?"

"You can ride a horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Elder will have a pony here for you by the time you are ready. And you had better take an extra blanket with you," advised the superintendent as he turned away. "You will be living in a tent, you know."

Half an hour later Alex, mounted on a spirited little cow-pony, with a few necessities in a sweater, strapped to the saddle, and a blanket over his shoulder, army fashion, waved a good-by to Jack and Wilson, and was off over the prairie at a lope, following the telegraph poles.

It was a beautiful morning, and with the sun shining and the sparkling air brushing his cheeks and tingling in his nostrils, Alex quickly forgot his disappointment at being so quickly separated from Jack and Wilson, and soon was enjoying every minute of his ride. Keeping on steadily at a hand-gallop, before he realized he had covered half the distance, he came upon the wire-stringing and pole-erecting gangs. A half mile farther, a long, dark break appeared in the plain, and a muffled din of pounding began to reach him. And pushing ahead, Alex drew up on the brink of a wide, deep gully, from either side of which reached out a great wooden frame, dotted with busy men.

It was the bed of the old Antelope river, which years before had changed its course, and which the railroad finally proposed crossing with a permanent fill.

Directly below, in a group of shrubby trees on the border of the stony creek which alone remained of the river, was a village of white tents. From Alex's feet a rough trail slanted downward toward it. Giving his pony free rein, he descended.

"Where is Mr. Norton?" he asked of a water-boy at the foot of the path.

"That's him at the table in front of the middle tent," the boy directed. Thanking him, Alex urged the pony forward, and leaped to the ground beside a dark-haired, energetic young man bending over a sheet of figures.

"I am the operator Mr. Finnan sent on," Alex announced as the engineer looked up.

"Glad to meet you," said the engineer, cordially rising and extending his hand. "You are a trifle young for this rough work, though, are you not?" he ventured, noting Alex's youthful face. "You are not the operator who caught that K. & Z. man Sunday?"

"I helped catch him," Alex corrected.

"You'll do, then," said Norton. "And I'll give you a place here in my own tent," he added, turning and entering a small marquee, followed by Alex.

"This corner will be yours, and the box your 'office.' It will do for the instruments?"

"Fine," responded Alex.

As the wire-stringing gang was not due to reach the viaduct before mid-afternoon, on completing his arrangements in the tent, Alex set out for a tour of his new surroundings. Climbing up the western slope of the gully, he found a large gang of foreigners, mostly Italians, working in a cutting. Judging that this was the gang which was causing the anxiety, Alex paused some moments to watch them.

Scattered over a system of miniature track, the men were shovelling earth into strings of small dump-cars, which when filled were run out over the completed western end of the viaduct, and dumped. As Alex stood regarding the active scene, a string of cars rumbled toward him from one of the more distant sidings. Others had been pushed by several men. This was being driven by a single burly giant. With admiration Alex watched. Suddenly a sense of something familiar about the figure stirred within him. The man came opposite, and Alex uttered an involuntary ejaculation. It was Big Tony, the Italian who had led the trouble amongst the trackmen at Bixton two years back, and with whom he had had the thrilling encounter at the old brick-yard.

When the Italian glanced toward him, Alex started back. But the foreigner did not recognize the young operator, with his two years of rapid growth, and passed on. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alex turned and made his way to the foreman in charge of the gang.

"How do you do," he said, introducing himself. "Who is that big Italian pushing the string of cars alone?"

"Tony Martino. The best man in the gang," responded the foreman. "Why? Do you know him?"

"He was on a surfacing-gang near my father's station two years ago," said Alex, "and caused no end of trouble. He was discharged finally."

"He must have reformed, then," the foreman declared. "He's certainly the best man we have—more than willing, and strong as an ox."

"He had nothing to do with the trouble you have had here, then?"

"He helped me put it down," said the foreman. "No; I only wish we had a few more like him."

Alex passed on, thoughtful. At Bixton Big Tony had been no more remarkable for his willingness to work than for his peaceableness. Had he really changed for the better? Or was it possible he was "playing possum," to cover the carrying-out of some plan of revenge against the road?

Three evenings later, a beautiful, moonlit night, Alex left the camp for a stroll. To obtain a look up and down the old river-bed by the moonlight, he made his way out on the now nearly completed viaduct.

As he stood gazing down the ravine to the south, a half-mile distant a dark figure passed over a bright patch of sand. It was quickly lost in the dark background beyond. But not before Alex had recognized the unmistakable figure and walk of the Italian, Big Tony. His suspicions at once awakened, Alex was but a moment in deciding to follow the foreigner, and returning to the eastern bank, he scrambled down to the gully bottom, and hastily followed, keeping well in the shadows on the eastern side of the ravine.

Reaching the spot at which he had seen the Italian, he went on more cautiously. A quarter-mile farther the ravine swung abruptly to the west. As Alex arrived at the bend, subdued voices reached him. Continuing cautiously, and keeping to the deepest shadows, Alex reached a clump of willow bushes.

He glanced beyond, and in a patch of moonlight discovered Big Tony in conversation with an almost equally tall stranger, apparently a cowboy. The latter's back was toward him.

The stranger turned, and Alex drew back with a start, and then a smile.

It was the second man of the two who on the previous Sunday had attempted to wreck the track-machine—the one who had made his escape.

As the man turned more fully, and he caught his words, Alex's jubilant smile vanished.

"... enough to blow the whole thing to matchwood, if you place it right," he was saying.

There was no doubt what this meant. They were planning to blow up the viaduct.

"Oh, I fixa it alla right, alla right," declared Big Tony confidently. "No fear. I usa da dynamite all-aready. I blow up da beega da house once."

"A house and a big wooden bridge are quite different propositions. And a wooden bridge isn't to be blown up like a stone or iron affair, you know."

"Suppose you come, taka da look, see my plan all-aright, den," the Italian suggested. "No one on disa side da bridge, to see, disa time night."

The cowman hesitated. "Well, all right. It would be best to make sure.

"We don't want to carry this, though. Where'll we put it?"

As he spoke the man leaned over and picked up a good-sized parcel done up in brown paper. From the careful way he handled it there could be no doubt of its contents. It was the dynamite they proposed using.

"Here, I fin' da place."

Alex caught his breath at the display of carelessness with which the foreigner took the deadly package. Backing into a nearby clump of bushes, Big Tony stooped and placed the dynamite on the ground, well beneath the branches.

"Dere. No one see dat. Come!"

As the two conspirators strode toward him, Alex crept closer into the shadows of the willows. Passing almost within touch of him, they continued up the gully, and soon were out of sight.

Before the footsteps of the two men had died away Alex was sitting upright, debating a suggestion that caused him to smile. With decision he arose, approached the bush under which the dynamite was concealed, and reaching beneath with both hands, very carefully brought the package forth and placed it on the ground in the moonlight. With great caution he then undid the twine securing the parcel, and opened it. On discovering a second wrapping of paper within, he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Lifting out the inner parcel intact, he glanced about, and choosing a group of bushes some distance away, carried the dynamite there and concealed it. Returning, he secured the piece of outer wrapping paper, and proceeded to carry out his idea.

Where the moonlight struck the western wall of the gully was a bed of cracked, sun-baked clay. Making his way thither, Alex found a fragment a little larger than the package of dynamite, and with his knife proceeded to trim it into a square. Carefully then he wrapped this in the brown paper, and wound it about with the cord just as the original parcel was secured. And with a smile Alex placed this under the bush from which he had taken the genuine package.

"Dynamite with that as much as you please, Mr. Tony," he laughed as he turned away.

When Alex had covered half the distance in returning to the viaduct he began keeping a sharp lookout ahead for the returning of the Italian and his companion. He was within a hundred yards of the great white structure when he discovered them. Turning aside, he concealed himself behind a small spruce.

With no apprehension of danger Alex waited, and the two men came opposite. Suddenly, without a motion of warning, the two turned and darted toward him, one on either side of the tree. Before Alex had recovered from his astonishment he found himself seized on either side, and threateningly ordered to be silent.

They dragged him on some distance, then into the moonlight. "Why, it's one of the fellows who captured Bucks on Sunday!" declared the cowboy. "What are you doing here, boy?" he demanded angrily.

"I was out for a moonlight stroll," Alex responded, stifling his apprehension.

"Why did you hide behind that tree, then?"

"Well—perhaps I was afraid," said Alex vaguely. "There are some rough people here among the foreign laborers."

As he spoke Alex noted with new alarm that the Italian was regarding him sharply. He turned his back more fully to the moonlight. Immediately he chided himself for his stupidity. The move emphasized the struggling sense of recognition in the Italian's mind, he smartly turned Alex's face full to the moon, and uttered a cry in Italian.

"Now I know! I know!" he cried exultingly. "I know heem before! And he a spy! A boy spy!"

Rapidly he gave the stranger a distorted account of the strike at Bixton, and Alex's part in his final discomfiture.

The cowman listened closely. "Is that so, boy?" he demanded.

"Partly. But it was not a strike. It was a simple piece of murderous revenge against one man, the section-foreman. And I helped spoil it."

"Good. That's all I want to know," said the cowboy with decision. "Not that I care one way or the other about the affair itself. It shows you are a dangerous man to leave around loose. I'll just take you along with me. Come on!"

"Come? Where?" said Alex, holding back in alarm.

"Never mind! Just come!" Securing a new hold on Alex's arms, the speaker and the Italian dragged him with them back down the gorge.

As they neared the spot at which the dynamite was supposed to be safely hidden, the stranger halted abruptly, studied Alex intently a moment, then sent Big Tony on ahead, after a whispered word in his ear.

Alex knew the foreigner had gone to learn whether the dynamite had been touched. In suspense he awaited the result. Would the Italian be deceived? Would he notice the new footprints about the bush?

Big Tony returned. "All-aright," he announced. Alex breathed a sigh of relief, and continued forward with his captors.

They proceeded some distance in silence, and presently Alex had sufficiently plucked up courage to again ask what they proposed doing with him.

"I'm going to take you where you will be out of mischief, that's all," replied the unknown cowman. As he spoke he halted, looked about, and resigning Alex to the guardianship of the Italian, disappeared in the shadow of an over-hang of the ravine. A moment later there was a clatter of hoofs, and he reappeared leading a horse.

"Make heem rida too?" questioned Big Tony.

"Hardly," responded the cowman, at the same time freeing and swinging a lariat from the saddle-horn. "He's going to trot along behind me like the blame little coyote he is.

"Hold out your hands, kid!" he ordered. Seeing resistance was useless, Alex reluctantly complied. Running the noose of the lassoo about the boy's wrists, the cowman tightened it, and secured it with several knots. Swinging into the saddle, he fixed the other end to the saddle-horn.

"You may go now, Tony," he said to the foreigner as he caught up the reins and headed the pony toward a path to the surface which Alex had not noticed.

"Gooda night, Meester Munson. And gooda-by, smart boy," said the Italian. "Lucky for you I havanta my way. 'Scrugk!' That's what you get," he declared, drawing his hand across his throat.

"Munson, eh?" murmured Alex as the lassoo tightened, and he stumbled up the path behind the pony. "That's another good thing learned."

Arrived at the surface, his captor halted to look about, then set off across the plains due south, at a walk, Alex trailing after at the end of the rope.

The situation was not without its humorous side, it occurred to Alex after his first apprehension had worn off. When a few minutes later the pony broke into a slow canter, and he was forced into an awkward dog-trot, a chuckle broke from him.

The man ahead turned in surprise. "Well, you're sure a game one," he observed. "Imagine it's funny, eh?"

"I was thinking how I would look to some of my friends, if they could see me here," explained Alex good-naturedly. "Trotting along like a little dog on a string."

The cowman pulled up and laughed. "Youngster, you're all right," he said heartily. "I'm sorry you're—that is—"

"On the wrong side?" suggested Alex, smiling.

"Very well. Let it go at that. Look here! If I take that thing off, will you promise to come along, and not play any tricks?"

"Yes, I will," agreed Alex readily. For he saw there was little chance of making his escape from the horseman on an open plain.

"Hold up your hands, then," directed the cowboy. Alex complied, and quickly he was free.

"How far are we going?" he asked as they moved on, Alex walking abreast.

"About twenty miles," replied the cowman.



XXI

TURNING THE TABLES

The moonlight had given place to darkness, and Alex was thoroughly exhausted from his long walk when the fence of a corral, then a group of small buildings, loomed up, and his captor announced that they were at their destination.

"Do you live here all alone?" Alex asked, seeing no lights.

"Since you fellows captured Bucks—yes," responded the cowboy, halting at the corral bars. Dismounting, he whipped saddle and bridle from the pony as it passed inside, and replacing the bars, led the way to the house.

It was a small, meagerly-furnished room that a match, then a lamp, disclosed. Against the rear wall was a small stove, in the center a rough table, at either end a low cot, and in one corner a cupboard. Two or three chairs, some pictures and calendars and two or three saddles completed the contents. The floor was of hard earth.

"That'll be your bunk there," said the owner, indicating one of the cots. "And you can turn in just as soon as you like."

Crossing the room, he stood at the foot of the bed, thinking. "What's the trouble? It looks comfortable enough," observed Alex, following.

"I have it," said the cowman, and going to the saddles, he returned with a coiled lariat. Alex laughed uncomfortably.

"Lie down," the man directed. "Or, hold on! Let's see first if you have any knives about you." Objection would have been fruitless, and Alex of his own accord surrendered his pocket-knife.

"Now lie down."

With what grace he could, Alex complied. Making a slip-loop in the center of the lariat, the cowman passed it over one of the boy's ankles, and made the holding-knot as firm as he could draw it. Then passing the two ends of the rope inside one of the lower legs of the cot, he ran them across the room and secured them to his own bed.

"That'll leave you comfortable, and put the knots out of temptation," he remarked. "Also, if you start any wriggling this old shake-down of mine will act as watch-dog. It squeaks if you look at it. And I'm a powerful light snoozer, and powerful quick with the gun when it's necessary," he added, with an emphasis which Alex could not doubt.

Nevertheless, when presently the cowman blew out the light, and retired, Alex only waited until a steady, deep snore announced that the man was asleep. Cautiously he sat up, and reached toward his encircled ankle.

The knots had been secured cleverly and tightly. Pry and pull as he could, they gave no more than if they had been made of wire.

Working lower, Alex sought to reach the cot leg, to see whether it was fixed to the floor. With some difficulty, because of the sitting position made necessary, he was straining toward it, when suddenly the bound foot lunged from him, the rope tightened, and from the cot opposite came a squeak. The snoring instantly ceased, and Alex sat motionless, holding his breath. The ominous silence continued, and finally he lay back with a movement as though turning in his sleep.

Minute after minute passed, and still the breathing of the man across the room did not resume.

Then suddenly, it seemed, Alex found himself sitting upright, and daylight flooding the room. He had fallen asleep.

The second cot was empty, but a moment after the door opened and the cowman appeared.

"How did you sleep, stranger?" he inquired. "I thought for a spell last night you were trying some funny business."

Alex laughed. "I slept like a log," he declared truthfully, ignoring the last remark. "Are you going to keep me tied up here all day?"

"Until after breakfast anyway," responded his host, proceeding to start a fire in the stove. "Suppose you'll have some bacon and coffee?"

"Thank you, yes. I'm more than hollow, after that Marathon run you gave me last night."

As the cowman turned to the cupboard Alex seized the opportunity to examine the leg of the cot about which the lassoo was passed. With disappointment he discovered it to be a stout post driven into the floor.

Despite the discomfort of his position Alex enjoyed the simple breakfast of biscuits and bacon. He was passing his cup for a third filling of the fragrant coffee, when his host abruptly sat the coffee-pot down and listened. "Someone coming," he remarked. Alex also heard the hoofbeats. They approached rapidly, there was a step at the door, and a tall, well-dressed figure in riding-breeches and leggings appeared. At sight of Alex he halted in surprise.

"Who's this, Munson?" he demanded.

The cowman led the way outside and closed the door, and low words told Alex that he was explaining the previous night's occurrences. More, they told him that this well-dressed man was the connecting link between the K. & Z. and the men who were seeking to interfere with the Middle Western in the race for the Yellow Creek Pass.

What would be the outcome of the man's visit for him? Alex asked himself. For the newcomer would not fail to appreciate the disadvantage of having been seen there by the young employee of the M. W.

The young operator was not left long in doubt. The door again opened, and the stranger re-entered, followed by the cowman, and without preliminary placed a chair before Alex and dropped into it.

"Look here, my boy," he began, "how would you like to earn some extra money—a good decent sum?"

At once seeing the man's intention, Alex bridled indignantly. But suppressing his feelings, he responded, "I'd like to as well as anyone else, I suppose—if I can earn it honorably."

At the last word a flush mounted to the stranger's cheeks, but he continued. "Well, that's all a matter of opinion, you know. Every man has his own particular code of honor. However—

"You probably have guessed who I am?"

"A K. & Z. man."

"Yes. Now look here: Suppose the K. & Z. was anxious to know from day to day the precise progress the Middle Western is making in this race for Yellow Creek, and suppose they were willing to pay a hundred dollars a month for the information—would that proposition interest you?"

Alex replied promptly, "No, sir. And anyway, it's not the information you want. It's my silence."

The man's face darkened. He had one more card to play, however.

"Well, let it go at that, then. And suppose, in addition to a hundred a month to keep silent as to seeing me here, and what you have learned generally, I should give you—" He thrust his hand into an inside pocket and brought forth a long pocketbook. "Suppose I should give you, say two hundred dollars, cash?"

Alex caught a knee between his hands and leaned back against the wall.

"I'm not for sale," he replied quietly.

The would-be briber thrust the book back into his pocket and sprang to his feet, purple with anger.

"Very well, my young saint," he sneered, "stay where you are, then—till we're good and ready to let you go!"

He strode to the door, Munson following him. "If he tries to get away," Alex heard him add as he mounted his horse, "shoot him! I'll protect you!"

"You are a young fool, all right," Munson said, returning. "You've simply made it worse for yourself. You've sure now got to stay right here, indefinite.

"And, as he ordered," the cowman added determinedly, "if you try to make a break-away of it, I'll sure shoot—and shoot to kill! When I go into a thing, I put it through!"

Alex, however, had no intention of staying, whatever the risks, and when presently Munson, after assuring himself that the knots were secure, passed out, he immediately addressed himself to the task of making his escape. It did not look difficult at first sight, since both hands were free, and only one foot tied. But an energetic attempt to loosen the cleverly-tied slip-loop failed as completely as it had the night before. Likewise, strain as he could at the cot leg, he could not budge it, so firmly was it driven into the hard ground.

With something like despair Alex at last relinquished these endeavors, and turned to the problem of cutting the rope in some way. In the hope of finding a nail with which he might pick or fray the lariat apart, he made a thorough examination of the cot. There were nails, but they were driven in beyond hope of drawing with his fingers.