The brakeman dropped to his knees to support the gory victim, and shouted for the porter. The latter brought the conductor, who tried to force water between Laird’s lips.
Both the brakeman and the conductor focused their eyes on the crimson sign that stood out like a beacon against the deathly pallor of Laird’s forehead.
The porter ran to try and find a doctor. It was immediately apparent that without medical assistance, Laird would not live the few minutes it would take the train to get to Truckee and a hospital.
Laird’s lips were moving. The conductor bent over, trying to catch something that would give a clew to the attack.
“Eyes,” said the dying man. “Green eyes!”
The conductor reached for a slip of paper. He urged Laird to speak further.
“In the box,” was all he could distinguish.
“Yes,” said the conductor. “In the box. What box?”
“See — ” The words were cut off by a gurgle of blood issuing from Laird’s pale lips.
The dying man said something indistinguishable. The conductor crouched closer.