forty-eight hours of wakeful
activity was upon him. The words of Old Andy were only so much of a
meaningless jumble to him. Into the car he stumbled, a doddering,
red-eyed thing, to drink his coffee as the rest drank it, to shamble to
the stove, forgetful of the steaming, rancid air, then like some tired
beast, sink to the floor in exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Hours he remained there, while the day crew carried the fight on
upward, through three of the smaller snowsheds, at last to halt at the
long, curved affair which shielded the jutting edge of Mount Taluchen.
Then Houston stirred; some one had caught him by the shoulder and was
shaking him gently. A voice was calling, and Houston stirred, dazedly
obedient to its command.

"I hate to awaken you--" It was a woman; her tones compassionate,
gentle. "But they're whistling for the night crew. They've still got
you on the list for firing."

Houston opened his eyes and forced a smile.

"That's all right. Thanks--thanks for waking me."

Then he rose and went forth into the agonies of the night,--willing,
eager, almost happy. A few words from a woman had given him strength,
had wiped out fatigue and aching muscles, and cramped, lifeless
limbs,--a few words from a woman he loved, Medaine Robinette.

CHAPTER XXIII

It was a repetition of the first night,--the same churning of the
plows, the same smaller machines working along the right of way to keep
the rails clear of drifting snow and ice particles, the wind howling
again and carrying the offal of the plows in gigantic spouts of dirty
white high into the air, to lash and pulverize it, then swish it away
to the icy valleys beneath, where drifts could do no harm, where there
were no struggling crews and dogged, half-dead men.

A repetition of the foul-smelling wooden tunnels, the sulphur fumes,
the gasping of stricken men. The same long, horrible hours, the same
staggering release from labor and the welcome hardness of a sleeping
spot on a wooden floor. Night after night it was the same--starlight
and snow, fair weather and storm. Barry Houston had become a
rough-bearded, tattered piece of human machinery like all the rest.
Then, at last--

The sun! Shining faintly through the windows of the bunk car, it
caused him to stir in his sleep. Dropping in a flood of ruby red, it
still reflected faint streaks of color across the sky, when at last he
started forth to what men had mentioned but seldom, and