"Yes."
"Then you'll be with them?"
"On the Death Trail? I expect to."
"They talk of it as something terrible. Why?"
Houston pointed to the forbidding wall of snow. His thick, broken lips mumbled in the longest speech he had known in days.
"It's all granite up there. The cut of the roadbed forms a base for the remainder of the snow. It's practically all resting on the tracks; above, there's nothing for the snow to cling to. When we cut out the foundation—they're afraid that the vibration will loosen the rest and start an avalanche. It all depends whether it comes before—or after we've passed through."
"And you are not afraid?" She asked it almost childishly. He shook his head.
"I—don't know. I guess every one is—a bit afraid, when they're going into trouble. I know what I'm doing, if that's what you mean."
She was silent for a long moment, looking up at the packed drifts, at the ragged outlines of the mountains against the moonlit sky, then into the valleys and the shimmering form of the round, icy lake, far below. Her lips moved, and Barry went closer.
"Beg pardon?"