“No,” he said, “there are no wolves in these mountains to speak of,” and he smiled a smile that was almost sad.
“Nor Indians?” said the sweet voice, a trifle clearer.
“Nor Indians,” said McGuire, shaking his head.
“They’re dreadful on the Ouray branch.”
“Which, the wolves or the Indians?”
“Both,” she replied. “A gentleman told us, there where we stopped so long, that they killed ever so many Indians coming down this morning. Mr. Bowen, I think they called him; he seemed to be one of the officials of the road, so I’m sure he would not say anything to frighten people if it were not true.”
McGuire was boiling. He might have been tempted to introduce Mr. Bowen then and there, but at that moment the head brakeman came back to say that they were stuck fast in a drift a hundred yards from the little telegraph office at the foot of Cerro Hill.
For nearly an hour they bucked and backed and bucked again, but it was of no use. The snow was growing deeper with each passing moment. Presently it stopped snowing and began to blow, and McGuire asked for orders to back down to Montrose again, but the despatcher would not let him go.
Denver was hammering Salida, Salida was swearing at Gunnison, and Gunnison was burning the company wire over Cerro Hill, telling McGuire to get out.
Finally the trainmaster lost his head, McGuire lost his temper, wrote his resignation and handed it to the operator, but fortunately the wires were down by this time, and the message couldn’t go.