gan heard no more--he was on the platform now. Coupled behind
the derrick crane and the tool car were two coaches, improvised
ambulances, and into these latter, instead of the tool car, the men of
the wrecking gang were piling--a bad smash brought luxury for them.
Shouts, cries, hubbub, a babel of voices were around him, but in his
brain, repeated and repeated over and over again, lived only a phrase
from the letter he had torn to pieces, stamped under heel that
afternoon--the words were swimming before his eyes: "Michael, dear,
we've both been wrong; I'm bringing _baby_ back on the Coast Express
Friday night."

Men with little black bags brushed by him and tumbled into the rear
coach--the doctors of Big Cloud to the last one of them. Dorsay came
running from the station, a bit of tissue, his orders, fluttering in
his hand, and sprang for the cab. 1014's exhaust burst suddenly into
quick, deafening explosions, the sparks shot volleying heavenward from
her short stack, the big, whirling drivers were beginning to bite--and
then, through the gangway, after the engineer, into the cab swung
Flannagan--Flannagan, the wrecking boss.

Spider Cut is the Eastern gateway of the Rockies, and it lies, as the
crows fly, sixteen miles west of Big Cloud; but the right of way, as it
twists and turns, circling and dodging the buttes that grow from mounds
to foothills, makes it on the blue-prints twenty-one decimal seven.
The running time of the fast fliers on this stretch is--but what of
that? Dorsay that night smashed all records, and the medical men in
the rear coach tell to this day how they clung for life and limb to
their seats and to each other, and most of them will admit--which is
admitting much--that they were frightened, white-lipped men with broken
nerves.

As the wreck special, with a clash and clatter, shattered over the
switches in the upper yard and nosed the main line, Stan Willard, who
had the shovel end of it, with a snatch at the chain swung open the
furnace door and a red glow lighted up the heavens. Dorsay turned in
his seat and looked at the giant form of the wrecking boss behind
him--they had told him the story in the office.

The eyes of the two men met. Flannagan's lips moved dumbly; and, with
a curious, pleading motion, he gestured toward the throttle.

Dorsay opened another notch. He laughed a grim, hard laugh.

"I _know_," he shouted over the roar. "I know. Leave it to me,
Flannagan."

The ba