A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made the agent set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and he could hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He came into sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene. Two hundred yards up the track stood the major portion of the train, intact. Behind it, by itself, lay a Pullman sleeper, on its side and apparently little harmed. Nearest to Banneker, partly on the rails but mainly beside them, was jumbled a ridiculous mess of woodwork, with here and there a gleam of metal, centering on a large and jagged boulder. Smaller rocks were scattered through the _melange_. It was exactly like a heap of giant jack-straws into which some mischievous spirit had tossed a large pebble. At one end a flame sputtered and spread cheerfully. A panting and grimy conductor staggered toward it with a pail of water from the engine. Banneker accosted him. "Any one in--" "Get outa my way!" gasped the official. "I'm agent at Manzanita." The conductor set down his pail. "O God!" he said. "Did you bring any help?" "No, I'm alone. Any one in there?" He pointed to the flaming debris. "One that we know of. He's dead." "Sure?" cried Banneker sharply. "Look for yourself. Go the other side." Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. "How many others?" "Seven, so far." "Is that all?" asked the agent with a sense of relief. It seemed as if no occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurd rubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive. "There's a dozen that's hurt bad." "No use watering that mess," said Banneker. "It won't burn much further. Wind's against it. Anybody left in the other smashed cars?" "Don't think so." "Got the names of the dead?" "Now, how would I have the time!" demanded the conductor resentfully. Banneker turned to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay. They were not disposed decorously. The faces were uncovered. The postures were crumpled and grotesque. A forgotten corner of a battle-field might look like that, the young agent thought, bloody and disordered and casual. Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and, crouching beside it, a man who fondled one of its hands, weeping quietly. Close by lay the corpse of a child showing no wound or mark, and next that, something so mangled that it might have been either man or woman--or neither. The other victims were humped or sprawled upon the sand in postures of exaggerated _abandon_; all but one, a blonde young girl whose upthrust arm seemed to be reaching for something just beyond her grasp.