“He had nothing to do with the trouble you have had here, then?”
“He helped me put it down,” said the foreman. “No; I only wish we had a few more like him.”
Alex passed on, thoughtful. At Bixton Big Tony had been no more remarkable for his willingness to work than for his peaceableness. Had he really changed for the better? Or was it possible he was “playing possum,” to cover the carrying-out of some plan of revenge against the road?
Three evenings later, a beautiful, moonlit night, Alex left the camp for a stroll. To obtain a look up and down the old river-bed by the moonlight, he made his way out on the now nearly completed viaduct.
As he stood gazing down the ravine to the south, a half-mile distant a dark figure passed over a bright patch of sand. It was quickly lost in the dark background beyond. But not before Alex had recognized the unmistakable figure and walk of the Italian, Big Tony. His suspicions at once awakened, Alex was but a moment in deciding to follow the foreigner, and returning to the eastern bank, he scrambled down to the gully bottom, and hastily followed, keeping well in the shadows on the eastern side of the ravine.
Reaching the spot at which he had seen the Italian, he went on more cautiously. A quarter-mile farther the ravine swung abruptly to the west. As Alex arrived at the bend, subdued voices reached him. Continuing cautiously, and keeping to the deepest shadows, Alex reached a clump of willow bushes.
He glanced beyond, and in a patch of moonlight discovered Big Tony in conversation with an almost equally tall stranger, apparently a cowboy. The latter’s back was toward him.
The stranger turned, and Alex drew back with a start, and then a smile.
It was the second man of the two who on the previous Sunday had attempted to wreck the track-machine—the one who had made his escape.
As the man turned more fully, and he caught his words, Alex’s jubilant smile vanished.