this reminder came that very afternoon while he was working at the bottom of the deep cut through the spur of the hill which marked the top of the long, stiff grade just west of the mill switch.

the other members of the gang were at the farther end of the cut, and allan had just finished levelling down a pile of gravel, when he heard a sudden shout of warning from jack.

“look out, allan!” cried the latter. “look out!”

allan instinctively sprang aside, and was just in time to escape a large boulder which came crashing down the side of the cut.

allan gazed at it in astonishment, drawing a deep breath at his escape. then he saw jack, followed by the others, charging madly up the side of the hill. without stopping to reason why, he followed.

“what’s the matter?” he cried, as he came panting up behind the ones who had just gained the hilltop.

“matter!” cried jack, glaring around to right and left over the hillside. “matter enough! what d’ y’ suppose made that rock fall that way?”

“why,” said allan, looking around bewildered, “the earth under it must have given way—”

“nonsense!” interrupted the foreman, impatiently. “look, here’s th’ hole it left. th’ earth didn’t give way a bit. y’ kin see th’ rock was pried out—yes, an’ here’s th’ rail that was used to do it with. now, who d’ y’ suppose had hold of that rail?”

allan turned a little giddy at the question.

“not dan nolan?” he said, in an awed whisper.

“who else but dan nolan. an’ he’s hidin’ down there in one o’ them gullies, sneakin’ along, keepin’ out o’ sight, or i’m mistaken.”

“did you see him?” asked allan.

“no, i didn’t see him,” retorted jack. “if i’d seen him, i’d have him in jail afore night, if i had t’ hunt this whole county over fer him. but i know it was him. who else could it be? you know he’s threatened y’. he’s been hangin’ around doggin’ y’ ever since i put y’ at this job. there’s more’n one of us knows that; an’ there’s more’n one of us knows, too, that he wouldn’t be above jest this kind o’ work. he lamed a man on my gang, onct, jest because he had a grudge ag’in him—dropped th’ end of a rail on his foot an’ mashed it so bad that it had t’ be taken off. he said it was an accident, an’ i believed him, fer i didn’t know him as well then as i do now. he wouldn’t stop at murder, dan nolan wouldn’t—why, that rock would ’a’ killed you in a minute, if it had hit you!”

“yes, i believe it would,” said allan, and he shivered a little at the thought of his narrow escape.

jack took another long look around at the hills and valleys, but if nolan was anywhere among them, the trees and underbrush hid him effectually. and allan was loth to believe jack’s theory; bad as nolan was, it seemed incredible that he should be so savage, so cold-blooded, as to lie there on the brink of the precipice, waiting, moment by moment, until his victim should be in the precise spot where the rock would strike him. that seemed too fiendish for belief.

“i wouldn’t like to think nolan did it,” he said, a little hoarsely, “unless i had some proof. you didn’t see him, you know—”

“see him!” echoed jack. “no—i didn’t need to see him! there’s th’ hole th’ stone was pried out of, an’ there’s th’ rail that was used fer a lever. now who had hold o’ that rail? ain’t nolan th’ only enemy you’ve got in th’ world?”

“yes,” said allan, in a low voice; “yes, i believe he is.”

“an’ do you suppose a feller would lay fer you like that unless he had somethin’ ag’in you? i tell you, dan nolan’s hidin’ down there in the bushes somewhere, an’ lookin’ up here at us an’ swearin’ because he didn’t git you!” and jack shook his fist impatiently at the horizon. “if i had him under my heel, i’d kill him like i would a snake!”

which, of course, jack wouldn’t have done, but his honest irish blood was boiling at this moment, and he said more than he meant.

“come on, boys,” he added, calming himself by a mighty effort, “we can’t ketch him now, but we’ll git th’ scoundrel yet!” and he started down the hill, a savage scowl still on his face.

the incident had cast a shadow over the spirits of the gang, and they worked the rest of the afternoon in silence. indeed, ever since reddy’s accident, the gang had lacked that spirit of optimism and gaiety which had marked it; a new man had been taken on, but while he did reddy’s work fairly well, he could not take reddy’s place in the hearts of the men. their day’s work lacked the savour which reddy’s wit had given it, and they went home at night more weary than had been their wont. jack saw, too, that their work had lost some of its alacrity, and yet he had no heart to find fault with them.

but he took no more chances of allan’s suffering any treacherous injury. he had talked the matter over with his wife, and between them, they had laid out a plan of action. whenever possible, jack kept allan near him. when that was not possible, he took care that the boy should not be alone at any spot where his enemy could sneak up on him from behind. he knew if the boy was injured through any carelessness or lack of foresight on his part, he would never dare to go home again and face his wife!

all of this was, of course, plain enough to allan, and chafed him somewhat, for he did not want the rest of the gang to think him a baby who needed constant looking after. besides, he had an honest reliance on his ability to look after himself. so, one day, he ventured to protest.

“see here, jack,” he said, “i’m not afraid of dan nolan. in fact, i think i’d be rather glad of the chance to meet him in a fair stand-up fight.”

“an’ that’s just th’ chance he’ll never give ye,” retorted jack. “i wouldn’t be afeerd o’ him, either, if he’d fight fair—i believe y’ could lick him. but he won’t fight fair. th’ coward’ll hit y’ from behind, if he kin—an’ he’s waitin’ his chance. that’s his kind, as y’ ought t’ know by this time. oh, if i could only ketch him!”

but since the afternoon that great rock had fallen, nolan had utterly disappeared from his accustomed haunts. jack made diligent inquiries, but could get no news of him. the gang of scalawags who were his usual companions professed to be utterly ignorant of his whereabouts. he had been sleeping in a little closet back of one of the low railroad saloons, paying for board and lodging by cleaning out the place every morning, but the proprietor of the place said he had not been near there for a week. so at last jack dropped his inquiries, hoping against hope that nolan had taken alarm and left the neighbourhood.

reddy continued to improve physically from day to day, but mentally he grew worse and worse. his broken arm had healed nicely, and the wound in his head was quite well, but the injury to the brain baffled all the skill of his physicians. he would sit around the house, moping, seemingly taking notice of nothing; then he would suddenly start up and walk rapidly away as though he had just remembered some important engagement. frequently he would be gone all day, sometimes even all night. he was rarely at home at meal-times, and yet he never seemed to be hungry.

mrs. magraw could never find out from him where he spent all this time. he refused to answer her questions, until, seeing how they vexed him, she ceased from bothering him, and let him go his own way. of her bitter hours of despair and weeping, she allowed him to see nothing, but tried always to present to him the same cheerful and smiling countenance she had worn in the old days before his injury. in spite of this, he grew more and more morose, more and more difficult to get along with. the doctor advised that he be taken to an asylum, but the very word filled his wife with a nameless dread, and she prayed that he might be left in her care a little while longer. perhaps he might grow better; at any rate, unless he grew worse, she could look after him.

one morning, about a week after the attempt upon allan’s life, he and jack were working together on the embankment by the river’s edge, when the foreman stopped suddenly, straightened himself, and, shading his eyes with his hand, gazed long and earnestly across the water. allan, following his look, saw two men sitting by a clump of willows, talking earnestly together. their figures seemed familiar, but it was not until one of them leaped to his feet, waving his arms excitedly, that he recognized him as reddy magraw.

“who is the other one?” he asked.

“it’s dan nolan,” said the foreman between his teeth. “what deviltry d’ y’ suppose he’s puttin’ int’ that poor feller’s head?”

allan did not answer, but a strange foreboding fell upon him as he watched reddy’s excited oratory. then the two watchers saw nolan suddenly pull reddy down, and together they vanished behind the trees.

what could it mean? allan asked himself. what villainy was dan nolan plotting? was he trying to make poor, half-witted reddy his instrument for the commission of some crime?

jack, too, worked away in unaccustomed silence and unusual heaviness of heart, for he was asking himself the same questions. something must be done; reddy must not be led into any mischief; and no influence which nolan might gain over him could be anything but bad. it was like the coward to try to get another man to do what he himself shrank from doing.

the morning passed and noon came, but neither jack nor allan had relish for their dinner—the incident of the morning had spoiled their appetites.

“we’ll have t’ look out after reddy some way,” said jack, at last, and then fell silent again.

they were soon back at work, and allan, busy with his thoughts, did not notice that the air grew chill and the sky overcast.

“the’ll be a storm t’-night,” observed jack at last, looking around at the sky.

“’fore night,” said one of the workmen. “we’ll be havin’ to quit work purty soon.”

even to an unpractised eye, the signs were unmistakable. down from the north great banks of black clouds were sweeping, and the wind felt strangely cold, even for the last days of october. at last came the swift patter of the rain, and then a swirl of great, soft, fleecy flakes.

“snow!” cried jack. “well, ’f i ever!”

all stopped to watch the unaccustomed spectacle of snow in october. it fell thick and fast, the flakes meeting and joining in the air into big splotches of snow, which melted almost as soon as it touched the ground. two of the men, who had been blotted from sight for a moment, came hurrying toward the others.

“we might as well quit,” said jack. “we can’t work this kind o’ weather;” and so they started homeward through the storm, an hour before the usual time.

as the evening passed, the storm grew heavier and more violent. looking out from the window after supper, allan found that the whole world was shut from sight behind that swirling white curtain. from time to time he could hear the faint rumble of a train in the yards below, but no gleam of the engine’s headlight penetrated to him.

“it’s a bad night fer railroadin’,” jack remarked, looking out beside him. “a bad night. th’ rails ’r so slippy th’ wheels can’t grip ’em, an’ th’ engineer might as well shut his eyes fer all th’ good his headlight does him. an’ th’ brakeman—fancy runnin’ along th’ two-foot path on the top of a train in a storm like this!”

but trainmen cannot stop for wind or weather, darkness or stress of storm, and the trains rumbled in and out through the night, most of them behind time, to be sure, but feeling their way along as best they could, while up in the offices the despatchers, with tense nerves and knitted brows, struggled to maintain order in the midst of chaos. the wires were working badly, every train on the road was behind the schedule; out at some of the little stations, the operators, unused to the strain, were growing nervous. the superintendent closed his desk with a bang, after dictating the last letter; but instead of going home, as usual, he stood around with his hands in his pockets, listening to the wildly clicking instruments, and chewing a cigar savagely.

allan lay for a long time that night listening to the trains, thinking of the wonderful system by which the great business was managed. he could understand, as yet, only a little of this system, and he was hungering to know more. then the scene of the morning came back to him, and he tossed from side to side, thinking of it. poor reddy—yes, he needed looking after if dan nolan had got hold of him. reddy’s mind was more that of a child than of a man at present. what an evil influence dan might have over him if he cared to use it!

at last sleep came; but in an instant he was back again at the river bank peering across at the figures on the other side. they were talking together; they seemed to be quarrelling. then, suddenly, nolan caught the other by the throat and hurled him backward over the bank into the water. reddy sank with a wild cry; then his head reappeared, and he caught a glimpse of the boy standing on the farther bank.

“allan!” he cried, stretching out his arms imploringly. “allan!”

allan sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes, straining his ears to hear the call again.

“allan!”

it was jack’s voice,—he knew it now,—but the dawn was not peeping in at the window, as was usual when jack called him. he realized that the night had not yet passed. he caught a glimmer of yellow light under his door and heard jack putting on his boots in the room below.

fully awake at last, he sprang out of bed and opened the door.

“what is it?” he called down the stair. “do you want me?”

“yes. hurry up,” answered jack’s voice.

allan threw on his clothes with trembling hands, and hastened down-stairs. he found jack already at table, eating hastily.

“set down,” said the latter, “an’ fill up. it’s mighty uncertain when ye’ll git another square meal.”

“we’re going out?” asked the boy. “then there’s a wreck?”

“yes, a wreck—freight, near vinton. th’ caller jest come fer me. it’s so bad all th’ section-gangs on this end ’r ordered out. eat all y’ kin. better drink some coffee, too. y’ll need it.”