“Great Heavens, Bob!” exclaimed Bucks. “How will they ever get it out?”
“The only way they’ll ever get it out, I reckon, is by keeping Dan Baggs digging there till he digs it out.”
“Dan Baggs never could dig that out––how long would it take him?”
“About a hundred and seventy-five years.”
As Scott spoke, the two heard footsteps behind them. Baggs and Delaroo, who had slept at the section-house, were coming down the track. “Baggs,” said Scott ironically, as the sleepy-looking engineman approached, “you were right about the Indians being in the cotton-woods last night.”
“I knew I was right,” exclaimed Baggs, nodding 171 rapidly and brusquely. “Next time you’ll take a railroad man’s word, I guess. Where are they?” he added, looking apprehensively around. “What have they done?”
“They have stolen your engine,” answered Scott calmly. He pointed to the river bed. Baggs stared; then running along the bank he looked up-stream and down and came back sputtering.
“Why––what––how––what in time! Where’s the engine?”
“Indians,” remarked Scott sententiously, looking wisely down upon the sphinx-like quicksand. “Indians, Dan. They must have loaded the engine on their ponies during the night––did you hear anything?” he demanded, turning to Bucks. Bucks shook his head. “I thought I did,” continued Scott. “Thought I heard something––what’s that?”
Baggs jumped. All were ready to be startled at anything––for even Scott, in spite of his irony, had been as much astounded as any one at the first sight of the empty bed of sand. It was enough to make any one feel queerish. The noise 172 they heard was the distant rumble of the wrecking-train.