The sun was sinking toward the desert ranges in the west; end o’ track was moving forward more slowly.
Terry measured the distance between sun and mountains.
“Dunno whether they’ll do it or not. They’re pretty well petered out. Those track-layers are plumb tuckered. Reckon their hands and feet, both, are blistered.”
“The spikers’ tongues are sure hanging out,” added George. “’Twon’t be fair for ’em to work by night. They’ve got to finish inside of a day.”
The U. P. officials were still here; so was Pat, and Big Mike the grading boss, and quite a bunch of other spectators who, like Terry and George, had resolved to “stick it out.”
The nine-mile post! The sun now was low over the western edge of Promontory Point.
“One more stake, boys,” hoarsely urged Boss Minkler. “Plenty of time, if you just keep at it.”
“No stopee, John. Keep chop-chop. Almost topside,” shouted Mr. Crocker.
“Hi-yah, Meesty Clocky. Keep chop-chop, make topside, you bet,” panted the Chinamen.
The sun of April 29 was touching the western ridge; the shadows of workers and spectators stretched long—the rail-layers’ shadows seemed to lead on, marking the way.