Hector rapped an inward oath of agony. White man—ghastly in the lamp-light, with pale, bloody face, and tattered scarlet—and Indian, they stared at each other.
BOOK TWO: Spirit-of-Iron
Chapter I
I
Until comparatively recently, the destinies of nations depended mainly upon roads. A nation might be judged by the state of its roads. Civilization and Progress moved along good roads, bad roads were the symbols of Barbarism. Rome, the Imperial power of the ancient world, the greatest apostle of Civilization and Progress born before the Renaissance, built the best roads ever made.
For the past century the railway has been to nations and Empires what the road once was.
Western Canada, marching under the wing of the Mounted Police, had by this time emerged from barbarism. A decade of strong government had done its work. Homesteads dotted the vastness of the plains, small islands in wide seas of grass. Little towns were rising up like magic at the forks of the long, lone trails. The country was slowly waking, like a young giant, from the sleep of untold centuries, awakening to a vague yet definite conception of its destiny. Faintly visioning its mighty future, it carefully took the measure of itself and looked around for what it lacked to fill its deficiencies. Where one homestead stood it knew there should be a hundred. Where little shack-towns rose, it knew there should be cities. The future held its promise of these things. But until the country's crying need was filled, the future remained a promise—nothing more.
The country's crying need—what was it?
The railway.