“Do you mean to tell me that they will allow Antioch to burn and not lift a hand to save the town?” he demanded, sternly.
He couldn't believe it.
“Well, you see, there won't any one here want to get killed; and they will think they got enough trouble of their own to keep them home.”
“We can go up-town and see if we can't find a man who thinks of more than his own skin,” said Dan.
“Oh, yes, we can try,” agreed Durks, apathetically, but his tone implied an unshaken conviction that the search would prove a fruitless one.
“Can't you think of any one who would like to make the trip?” Durks was thoughtful. He thanked his lucky stars that the M. & W. paid half his salary. At last he said:
“No, I can't, Mr. Oakley.”
There was a sound like the crunching of cinders underfoot on the other side of the freight car near where they were standing, but neither Durks nor Oakley heard it. The operator's jaws worked steadily in quiet animal enjoyment of their task. He was still canvassing the Junction's adult male population for the individual to whom life had become sufficiently burdensome for Oakley's purpose. Dan was gazing down the track at the red blur in the sky. Back of that ruddy glow, in the path of the flames, lay Antioch. The wind was in the north. He was thinking, as he had many times in the last hour, of Constance and the Emorys. In the face of the danger that threatened he even had a friendly feeling for the rest of Antioch. It had been decent and kindly in its fashion until Ryder set to work to ruin him.
He knew he might ride into Antioch on his engine none the worse for the trip, except for a few bums, but there was the possibility of a more tragic ending. Still, whatever the result, he would have done his full part.
He faced Durks again.