"Get up an engine!"
"Not—you're not going down there to-night?" stammered Bucks.
"Yes. Now. Right off. Peeto, get out your men!"
The foreman jumped for the door. Little Duffy, snatching the train sheet, began clearing track for a bridge special. In twenty minutes twenty men were running as many ways through the storm, and a live engine boomed under the wickiup window.
"I want you to be careful, Phil," Bucks spoke anxiously as he looked with Healey out into the storm. "It's a bad night." Healey made no answer.
The lightning shot the yards in a blaze and a crash split the gorge. "A wicked night," muttered Bucks.
Evans, conductor of the special, ran in.
"Here's your orders," said Duffy. "You've got forty miles an hour."
"Don't stretch it," warned Bucks. "Good-by, Phil," he added to Healey, "I'll see you in the morning."
"In the morning," echoed Healey. "Good-by."