Holt turned back into the depot, and the crowd dispersed.
In the ticket-office he found McClintock, who had just come in from up-town. The master mechanic's face was unusually grave.
“I have been investigating the water supply with the city engineer. Things are in awful shape. The mains are about empty, and there isn't pressure enough from the stand-pipe to throw a thirty-five foot stream.”
“I wish Oakley was here,” muttered Holt.
“So do I. Somehow he had a knack at keeping things moving. I don't mean but what you've done your level best, Byron,” he added, kindly.
“They've laid down on me at the Junction,” said the younger man, bitterly.
He stepped to the door, mopping his face with his handkerchief, and stood looking down the track in the direction of Buckhorn.
“They made it so Oakley couldn't stay, and now they wonder why the relief train is hung up. All Durks says is that he can't get a crew. I tell you if Oakley was here he'd have to get one.”
“It was a mistake to send the yard engine up to Parker's Run. If we had it here now—”
“How in hell was I to know we'd need it? I had to try to save those ties, and we thought the wind was shifting into the south,” in fierce justification of his course.