“I'm doing the best I can, friend!” Tom called, as he made a fresh cast.
This time the noose of the raw-hide lariat dropped over the laborer's head.
“Fight your hands free, man!” Tom called encouragingly. “Fight your hands and chest free, so that you can slip the noose down under your armpits. Keep cool and work fast, and we'll have you out. Don't let yourself get excited.”
In the meantime Tom was wholly unaware that the engulfing quicksand was reaching up gradually toward his hips.
Foreman Payson had ceased to try to attract Tom's attention. Whatever was to be done to save the chief engineer must be done swiftly. There was not another lariat, or any kind of rope at hand.
Behind was a cloud of alkali dust. Harry Hazelton was riding as fast as he could urge a spirited horse.
In another moment Hazelton had reined up at the edge of the group, dismounting and tossing the reins to one of the workmen.
“My man, you get on that horse and fly for a rope!” ordered Harry.
This last Hazelton shot back over his shoulder, for he was pushing his way through the rapidly forming crowd to Payson's side. Another foreman had just come up.
“Mr. Bell,” shouted Harry, “drive the men back who are not needed. We don't want to put a lot of weight on the soil here and cause a further cave-in.”