; and he saw the men of the Cross pass down the road, arguing with
stolid emphasis against the injustice of the ordered strike. He knew
they would return to the camp and continue that argument, with more or
less heat, and wondered what the outcome would be.

He tried to forget his sorrow and bodily pains by checking over his
old assay slips, while Bill wandered, like a bruised and melancholy
survivor of a battle, from the mill to the hoist, from cabin to cabin,
and mess-house to bunk-house, stopping now and then to stare upward at
the peak, as if still thinking of that fresh and fragrant earth piled
in a mound above Bells Park.

Once, in the night, they were awakened by the sounds of the men
returning, as they discussed their situation and interjected copious
curses for the instruments of the tragedy. Once again, later, Dick was
awakened by a series of blasts, and turned restlessly in his bed,
struck a match, and looked at his watch, wondering if it had all been
a dream, and the morning shots of the Rattler had aroused him. It was
but three o'clock, and he returned to his troubled sleep thinking that
he must have been mistaken. Barely half-awake, he heard Bill climb out
of his bed and don his clothing, the whistle pulled by the new hands,
and the clang of hammer on steel in the blacksmith's shop. Then with a
start, he was aroused from the dreamless slumber of the utterly
exhausted by a heavy hand laid on his shoulder and a heavy voice:
"Wake up, Dick! Wake up, boy! They've got us."

He sat up, rubbing his eyes and fumbling with the cordings of his
pajamas. Bill was sitting on the edge of his bed, scowling and angry.

"Got us? Got us?" Dick repeated vaguely.

"Yes. Dynamited the Peltons, and I'm afraid that ain't all. We'll have
to go up the pipe line to find out."

Dick rolled out and jumped for his clothing. He did not take time to
follow his partner's kindly suggestion that he had better go to the
mess-house and get the "cookie" to give him a cup of hot coffee. He
was too much upset by the disaster, and walked rapidly over the trail.
Not a man was in sight around the works; and as he passed the smith's
door, he saw that Smuts, too, had gone, without taking time to don his
cap or doff his apron. The whole force appeared to have collected
around the power-house at the foot of the hill, which was around a
bend and shut off from view of the Cross. A jagged rent, scattered
stone and mortar, and a tangle of twisted st