At the approach to the S bridge, about two miles from Crescent City, four men—Kales, Bowen, Van Cleve and Orson—crouched near the track. Swede Sorenson had been left with the horses at San Gregario Cañon, and Roper Bates had never shown up.
A swirl of wind and rain caused them to hug the side of the fill, while overhead the lightning crackled wickedly. The great mass of storm-clouds seemed fairly to press against the earth, and the flashes of lightning seemed to bring only a gleam from the glistening rails.
“——’s recess!” swore Kales as he shielded a lantern inside his slicker, trying to light it.
The others crowded around him as he managed to get it lighted, and Van Cleve gave him a red handkerchief to tie around the chimney.
Kales braced himself against the wind and fought his way on to the track, where he placed the danger signal; but before he could get back to the rest, the wind hurled the lantern upside down, smashing the chimney.
“What’ll we do now?” yelled Bowen into Kale’s ear. “We can’t light it ag’in!”
“Build a fire on the track!” yelled Van Cleve.
“Try it!” replied Kales bitterly. “You’d have a —— of a sweet time. Looks like we’d have to pass it up, boys.”
“They’d never see a lantern in this storm anyway,” cried Orson.