ted the fire crept through and roared into triumph behind them.
The third time the line held, and this was well into the second day.

Charley Gates had fought doggedly. He had summoned the splendid
resources of youth and heritage, and they had responded. Next in line to
his right had been a stranger. This latter was a slender, clean-cut
youth, at first glance seemingly of delicate physique. Charley had
looked upon him with the pitying contempt of strong youth for weak
youth. He considered that the stranger's hands were soft and effeminate,
he disliked his little trimmed moustache, and especially the cool,
mocking, appraising glance of his eyes. But as the day, and the night,
and the day following wore away, Charley raised his opinion. The slender
body possessed unexpected reserve, the long, lean hands plied the tools
unweariedly, the sensitive face had become drawn and tired, but the
spirit behind the mocking eyes had not lost the flash of its defiance.
In the heat of the struggle was opportunity for only the briefest
exchanges. Once, when Charley despairingly shook his empty canteen, the
stranger offered him a swallow from his own. Next time exigency crowded
them together, Charley croaked:

"Reckon we'll hold her."

Toward evening of the second day the westerly breeze died, and shortly
there breathed a gentle air from the mountains. The danger was past.

Charley and the stranger took long pulls from their recently replenished
canteens. Then they sank down where they were, and fell instantly
asleep. The projecting root of a buckthorn stuck squarely into Charley's
ribs, but he did not know it; a column of marching ants, led by a
non-adaptable commander, climbed up and over the recumbent form of the
stranger, but he did not care.

They came to life in the shiver of gray dawn, wearied, stiffened, their
eyes swelled, their mouths dry.

"You're a sweet sight, stranger," observed Charley.

"Same to you and more of 'em," rejoined the other.

Charley arose painfully.

"There's a little water in my canteen yet," he proffered. "What might
you call yourself? I don't seem to know you in these parts."

"Thanks," replied the other. "My name's Cathcart; I'm from just above."

He drank, and lowered the canteen to look into the flaming, bloodshot
eyes of his companion.

"Are you the low-lived skunk that's running the Hydraulic Company?"
demanded Charley Gates.

The stranger laid down the canteen and scrambled painfully to