Toward sunset the work-train reached the height of desert land that sloped in long sweeping lines down to the base of the hills.
At this juncture a temporary station had been left in the shape of several box-cars where the telegraph operators and a squad of troopers lived.
As the work-train lumbered along to the crest of this heave of barren land Casey observed that some one at the station was excitedly waving a flag. Thereupon Casey, who acted as brakeman, signaled the engineer.
“Dom’ coorious that,” remarked Casey to his comrade McDermott. “Thim operators knowed we’d stop, anyway.”
That was the opinion of the several other laborers on the front car. And when the work-train halted, that car had run beyond the station a few rods. Casey and his comrades jumped off.
A little group of men awaited them. The operator, a young fellow named Collins, was known to Casey. He stood among the troopers, pale-faced and shaking.
“Casey, who’s in charge of the train?” he asked, nervously.
The Irishman’s grin enlarged, making it necessary for him to grasp his pipe.
“Shure the engineer’s boss of the train an’ I’m boss of the gang.”
More of the work-train men gathered round the group, and the engineer with his fireman approached.