you know him?"

"He was on a surfacing-gang near my father's station two years ago," said
Alex, "and caused no end of trouble. He was discharged finally."

"He must have reformed, then," the foreman declared. "He's certainly the
best man we have--more than willing, and strong as an ox."

"He had nothing to do with the trouble you have had here, then?"

"He helped me put it down," said the foreman. "No; I only wish we had a
few more like him."

Alex passed on, thoughtful. At Bixton Big Tony had been no more
remarkable for his willingness to work than for his peaceableness. Had he
really changed for the better? Or was it possible he was "playing
possum," to cover the carrying-out of some plan of revenge against the
road?

Three evenings later, a beautiful, moonlit night, Alex left the camp for
a stroll. To obtain a look up and down the old river-bed by the
moonlight, he made his way out on the now nearly completed viaduct.

As he stood gazing down the ravine to the south, a half-mile distant a
dark figure passed over a bright patch of sand. It was quickly lost in
the dark background beyond. But not before Alex had recognized the
unmistakable figure and walk of the Italian, Big Tony. His suspicions at
once awakened, Alex was but a moment in deciding to follow the foreigner,
and returning to the eastern bank, he scrambled down to the gully bottom,
and hastily followed, keeping well in the shadows on the eastern side of
the ravine.

Reaching the spot at which he had seen the Italian, he went on more
cautiously. A quarter-mile farther the ravine swung abruptly to the west.
As Alex arrived at the bend, subdued voices reached him. Continuing
cautiously, and keeping to the deepest shadows, Alex reached a clump of
willow bushes.

He glanced beyond, and in a patch of moonlight discovered Big Tony in
conversation with an almost equally tall stranger, apparently a cowboy.
The latter's back was toward him.

The stranger turned, and Alex drew back with a start, and then a smile.

It was the second man of the two who on the previous Sunday had attempted
to wreck the track-machine--the one who had made his escape.

As the man turned more fully, and he caught his words, Alex's jubilant
smile vanished.

"... enough to blow the whole thing to matchwood, if you place it right,"
he was saying.

There was no doubt what this meant. They were planning to blow up the
viaduct.

"Oh, I fixa it alla right, alla right," declared B