Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and apparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails but mainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with here and there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered through the mélange. It was exactly like a heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit had tossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spread cheerfully.
A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water from the engine. Banneker accosted him.
“Any one in—”
“Get outa my way!” gasped the official.
“I’m agent at Manzanita.”
The conductor set down his pail. “O God!” he said. “Did you bring any help?”
“No, I’m alone. Any one in there?” He pointed to the flaming debris.
“One that we know of. He’s dead.”
“Sure?” cried Banneker sharply.
“Look for yourself. Go the other side.”