neer
withstood Siclone; but when Ed Banks got there with his wrecking crew
and straightened things out, Fitzpatrick was picked up for dead. That
night Siclone disappeared.

Warrants were gotten out and searchers put after him; yet nobody could
or would apprehend him. It was generally understood that the sudden
disappearance was one of Siclone's freaks. If the ex-cowboy had so
determined he would not have hidden to keep out of anybody's way. I have
sometimes pondered whether shame hadn't something to do with it. His
tremendous physical strength was fit for so much better things than
beating other men that maybe he, himself, sort of realized it after the
storm had passed.

Down east of the depot grounds at McCloud stands, or stood, a great
barnlike hotel, built in boom days, and long a favorite resting-place
for invalids and travellers en route to California by easy stages. It
was nicknamed the barracks. Many railroad men boarded there, and the new
engineers liked it because it was close to the round-house and away from
the strikers.

Fitzpatrick, without a whine or a complaint, was put to bed in the
barracks, and Holmes Kay, one of our staff surgeons, was given charge of
the case; a trained nurse was provided besides. Nobody thought the
injured man would live. But after every care was given him, we turned
our attention to the troublesome task of operating the road.

The 313, whether it happened so, or whether Neighbor thought it well to
drop the disputed machine temporarily, was not taken out again for three
weeks. She was looked on as a hoodoo, and nobody wanted her. Foley
refused point-blank one day to take her, claiming that he had troubles
of his own. Then, one day, something happened to McTerza's engine; we
were stranded for a locomotive, and the 313 was brought out for McTerza;
he didn't like it a bit.

Meantime nothing had been seen or heard of Siclone. That, in fact, was
the reason Neighbor urged for using his engine; but it seemed as if
every time the 313 went out it brought out Siclone, not to speak of
worse things.

That morning about three o'clock the unlucky engine was coupled on to
the White Flyer. The night boy at the barracks always got up a hot lunch
for the incoming and outgoing crews on the mail run, and that morning
when he was through he forgot to turn off the lamp under his
coffee-tank. It overheated the counter, and in a few minutes the
wood-work was ablaze. If the frightened boy had emptie