shadows of the buildings, and walked far
out on the plains. Making a circuit to avoid meeting the woman again, he
skirted the back yards, stumbling over tin cans and debris in his
progress. When he got to the shed where he had hitched Nigger he mounted
and rode down the railroad tracks toward the cut, where an hour later he
was joined by Clay Levins, who came toward him, riding slowly and
cautiously.

* * * * *

Patrick Carson had wooed sleep unsuccessfully. For hours he lay on his cot
in the tent, staring out through the flap at the stars. A vague unrest had
seized him. He heard the hilarious din of Manti steadily decrease in
volume until only intermittent noises reached his ears. But even when
comparative peace came he was still wide awake.

"I'll be gettin' the willies av I lay here much longer widout slape," he
confided to his pillow. "Mebbe a turn down the track wid me dujeen wud do
the thrick." He got up, lighted his pipe and strode off into the
semi-gloom of the railroad track. He went aimlessly, paying little
attention to objects around him. He passed the tents wherein the laborers
lay--and smiled as heavy snores smote his ears. "They slape a heap harder
than they worruk, bedad!" he observed, grinning. "Nothin' c'ud trouble a
ginney's conscience, annyway," he scoffed. "But, accordin' to that they
must be a heap on me own!" Which observation sent his thoughts to
Corrigan. "Begob, there's a man! A domned rogue, if iver they was one!"

He passed the tents, smoking thoughtfully. He paused when he came to the
small buildings scattered about at quite a distance from the tents, then
left the tracks and made his way through the deep alkali dust toward
them.

"Whativer wud Corrigan be askin' about the dynamite for? 'How much do ye
kape av it?' he was askin'. As if it was anny av his business!"

He stopped puffing at his pipe and stood rigid, watching with bulging
eyes, for he saw the door of the dynamite shed move outward several
inches, as though someone inside had shoved it. It closed again, slowly,
and Carson was convinced that he had been seen. He was no coward, but a
cold sweat broke out on him and his knees doubled weakly. For any man who
would visit the dynamite shed around midnight, in this stealthy manner,
must be in a desperate frame of mind, and Carson's virile imagination drew
lurid pictures of a gun duel in which a stray shot penetrated the wall of
the shed. H