“Estrada!”
Estrada took his eyes from the river. Babcock looked like a snapping terrier taking the ditch at a bound. MacLean, Jr., a lithe greyhound, followed.
“What the devil are you doing to stop this?” A nervous hand indicated the Mexican station gleaming in its fresh coat of paint; to the muddy water undermining its foundation.
Estrada drew a cigarette out of his pocket; lighted it before answering.
“Not a God damn thing. What do you suggest?”
A big wave struck the bank. The car on the siding trembled.
“Another wave like that and that car’ll go over,” cried Babcock, jumping, mad. “Why don’t you do something? Why don’t you hustle—all of you?” He would report this incompetency.
Down the stream came a mass of débris, broken timbers, ravaged brush, a wrenched fence post, a chicken coop. A red hen, clinging to its swaying ship, took the rapids.
“Hustle—what?” murmured Estrada.
Babcock glared at him, then at the river. His eye caught the approaching wreckage. Men came running with their poles. The caving bank was too far gone. The instant the drifting mass struck it, there was a shudder of falling earth, the car toppled toward the flood waters, the waves breaking into clouds of spray.