torrance's pride was becoming a devastating thing; for the moment it had run away with his sense of proportion and obliterated every superstition. as he ran his eye expertly along the level of the steel rails and saw that the trestle did not sink so much as a hair's breadth, he wanted to shout it to the world. had he not, at unguarded moments, been held down by momentary flashes of the old dreads he would have jumped on his little speeder and chugged away to the west to sing his satisfaction to the hundred and one contractors who were looking for him to open the way to their longest and heaviest trains of supplies, growing longer and heavier as grade crept into the mountains. he wanted to cry to them: "run your trains--fifty cars at a time, if the rest of the line will bear 'em. as for the tepee trestle, it's as steady as the mountains--and a blame sight bigger job."

he longed to talk it over with those who had intelligence to size up the task; he wanted to read its due in the great newspapers of the east.

"some little jerk-water builder puts up a six-penny cement culvert down east and gets half a column. there ain't enough newspapers in the east to do justice to my trestle."

he was as frank in his self-appreciation as in his passions. now, so far as big jim torrance was concerned, there was not an obstacle in the line from montreal to the pacific. and he, big jim torrance, had made the transcontinental possible where others had failed.

it irritated him that his audience was so small. tressa's confidence was no new thing; she had always believed in him--no more now than before. conrad still clung to his megrims--phantom fears that had all but faded from torrance's mind. as for the five hundred brainless creatures to whom his great victory should be a matter of personal pride, it meant no more to them than last year's flowers.

and so torrance, waving a boisterous hand from the low seat of his speeder to the young pair standing on the steps of the shack, threw open the gas and throbbed down the track to the end-of-steel village to add to his audience two policemen and a train crew who were already crowing in anticipation of the end.

adrian conrad and tressa saw him go without a worry in the world but that he would return too soon. where only the three of them lived it was almost impossible for the two lovers to creep away by themselves. even a sympathetic daddy becomes a burden in the springtime of youth.

as the older man vanished in a whirl of dust from the loose grade, conrad puffed a long breath, turned to look deep into the girl's eyes, and without a word held out his hand. she took it, and they ran like children across the grade and into the forest.

not by favour but by a brain to plan and a never-ceasing vigilance did ignace koppowski hold the position of local president of the outlaw organisation. his spies were everywhere--or everywhere that mattered, he thought. and spies spied on other spies; that was the vertebrae of the system on which the i.w.w. thrived.

with his own eyes he saw torrance mount the speeder and drive away; and with a scowl he followed the laughing flight of the girl and her lover.

at last the trestle was unguarded!

a few hasty words to heppel started him at a lumbering trot for the camp. ten minutes later a score of men stood within their leader's shack.

koppy knew he had time. the boss was gone for the evening; and he knew something of lovers' rambles. one gang he despatched into the forest after tressa and conrad. a second crawled in detachments through the woods to the powder cache near conrad's shack. heppel had charge of the first, werner of the other. werner, given his orders, demurred.

"thanks, koppy, but i don't think it's a thing i couldn't do without."

"five men will do," said koppy.

"five men's six too many," grumbled werner. "why d'you pick yours truly for all the soft jobs?"

"you are honoured. only three of you--"

"i'll give up my share of the honour to morani's; he's fair bubbling for a chance to wipe out the miss he made with his dirk the other night. i'm not a bit resentful. i don't care if i never see the boss again. i resign in favour of chico."

"i need morani."

"not half as bad as i do, pompous one. look here, old chap, this is a big job, ain't it, a real big thing?"

"perhaps the end of everything," agreed the underforeman solemnly.

"that's why i'm not hankering for it," said werner under his breath. "and the fellow who carries it through is going to wear a bigger jewel in his crown, so to speak?" he asked aloud.

koppy glowered.

"then why not cop it yourself, old man? my crown's getting a bit top-heavy already. you got a finer sense of balance, and your neck's stronger. them bolts i drew on the trestle pretty near gave me a headache--not to say as near as you came to it when the boss got swinging," he added with a leer. "hugo werner never was ambitious."

koppy raised himself haughtily. "i order," he rapped.

"too darn much for my skin," grumbled werner. "it's a bad habit to get into--for the other fellow."

but he set about obeying, for therein lay the choice of two evils. five experienced "rock-hogs" were put in his care, men with so little reverence for dynamite that they chewed the sticks, from bravado at first, later as a horrible habit.

"they're all away," werner assured them, "and the girl. puff!--and it's all over."

he ran up the slope to the grade and danced in the open door of the boss's shack; and, grinning at the convincing devil of it, they set about their task. armed with fuse and dynamite they crept along underneath the bank toward the trestle. werner, as an excuse to linger, carried the fuse; he almost envied the bohunk in the rear with the dynamite. with quick hard blows the "rock-hogs" attacked one of the main central piers with hammer and chisel. they wanted to get it over; the job was too much exposed to suit them.

almost at the first blow a rock tumbled from the top of the trestle at their backs, and immediately a shower of gravel beat on and about them. promptly they ran, werner leading all the way.

from within his shack koppy witnessed the foiling of his plans. mouthing deep maledictions, he saw the indian dance a few steps on the trestle, shouting derision at his fleeing followers. and presently the red-skin clambered down through the network of the trestle and picked up fuse, dynamite and tools, to carry them stolidly up the slope past conrad's shack to the grade. then in full view of the camp he seated himself on the grade, rifle across his knee, and began to whittle.

there torrance, chugging noisily up from his evening dissipation at the end-of-steel village, found him. even at a distance the absence of life about the shack struck the contractor, and the last half mile he covered with everything open. with the brakes still screeching, he tumbled off and ran to the door, calling to tressa. the indian slipped through behind him.

"girl no here."

torrance whirled, every nerve tingling, fresh fears tumbling through his brain.

"out in woods with young brave," continued the indian, shrugging. "no watch time."

the contractor struck a match and lit the lamp. the indian closed the door and came close to him. in one hand he held several drills and hammers, in the other a length of fuse and two sticks of dynamite. torrance's eyes protruded. he looked from the indian's tell-tale hands to his stolid face.

"they drew them away and--and tried to blow up the trestle?" self-contempt for the evening's noisy pride swept over torrance. then the trestle faded completely from his mind. tressa--where was she?

"stay here," he ordered, rushing to the door. "i'll bring the police."

like a toy he lifted the speeder about, and with a heave of powerful legs sent it away to a flying start.

but torrance's reaction had carried him too far--just too far. tressa was safe. heppel and eight cruel companions, as directed by koppy, had gone on the trail of the two lovers. but when it came the moment to strike, adrian conrad was their master. in the darkness they slunk away. and the two lovers, arms entwined, scarcely knew that darkness was falling.

in the shack the indian listened to the fading exhaust of the speeder. his eyes were roving about the room. he was smiling. for the second time in a year he was within the walls of a home; for the first time free to look about. a curious pathetic longing twisted his face. he began to tip-toe about the room, laying a reverent finger everywhere. the covers of the coloured magazines he lifted and let fall, pressed the gaudy cushions that strewed the couch, touched the cheap ornaments tressa had woven into the picture with happy hand, stared into the home-framed pictures. over the vase of wild flowers he stooped with a reminiscent smile; and thoughtfully for several minutes he rocked tressa's own chair.

"mira shud have 'em all. . . . an' she's got nothin' but a hole in the ground with a halfbreed. . . . an' yet i ain't done nothin' . . . nothin'!"

absorbed as he was in his dreams, he did not forget the open doorway with its view from the distant camp. stooping beyond its range, he pushed through to the kitchen. it was pitch dark there, yet his eyes seemed to take in everything. a distant sound from far down the track sent him running to the stable door. it was locked. inside he could hear the quiet munching of the two horses. his powerful fingers closed over the padlock. a mere twist and nothing lay between mira and the home that should be hers. the chug of the returning speeder roared nearer.

blue pete put a hand to his head and turned away.

up through the night came the beating car, everything wide open, and stopped before the door. into the shaft of light from the open doorway torrance and sergeant mahon ran.

"chief, chief, where are you?"

from out over the trestle a voice replied.

"indian gone."

torrance dashed out on the grade and tried in vain to pierce the darkness. "here--here, you blithering idiot! the police want you."

no reply--not even a sound.

"you smug-faced redskin! i wonder how much you're mixed in this."

"indian no come more." the voice drifted from far away in the darkness on the trestle.

sergeant mahon lifted his head like a hound on the scent, then with a perplexed smile re-entered the shack.