Almost at the first blow a rock tumbled from the top of the trestle at their backs, and immediately a shower of gravel beat on and about them. Promptly they ran, Werner leading all the way.
From within his shack Koppy witnessed the foiling of his plans. Mouthing deep maledictions, he saw the Indian dance a few steps on the trestle, shouting derision at his fleeing followers. And presently the red-skin clambered down through the network of the trestle and picked up fuse, dynamite and tools, to carry them stolidly up the slope past Conrad's shack to the grade. Then in full view of the camp he seated himself on the grade, rifle across his knee, and began to whittle.
There Torrance, chugging noisily up from his evening dissipation at the end-of-steel village, found him. Even at a distance the absence of life about the shack struck the contractor, and the last half mile he covered with everything open. With the brakes still screeching, he tumbled off and ran to the door, calling to Tressa. The Indian slipped through behind him.
"Girl no here."
Torrance whirled, every nerve tingling, fresh fears tumbling through his brain.
"Out in woods with young brave," continued the Indian, shrugging. "No watch time."
The contractor struck a match and lit the lamp. The Indian closed the door and came close to him. In one hand he held several drills and hammers, in the other a length of fuse and two sticks of dynamite. Torrance's eyes protruded. He looked from the Indian's tell-tale hands to his stolid face.
"They drew them away and—and tried to blow up the trestle?" Self-contempt for the evening's noisy pride swept over Torrance. Then the trestle faded completely from his mind. Tressa—where was she?
"Stay here," he ordered, rushing to the door. "I'll bring the Police."
Like a toy he lifted the speeder about, and with a heave of powerful legs sent it away to a flying start.