Cool old veteran, one of the best that ever pulled a throttle in any cab, there was a queer smile on old Dan MacCaffery's lips. He needed no telling that disaster he could not avert, could only in a measure mitigate, perhaps, was upon them; but even as he checked, checked hard, and checked again, the thought of others was uppermost in his mind--the train crew of the freight, some of them, anyway, in the caboose. Dawes was beside him now, almost at his elbow, as nervy and as full of grit as the engineer he'd shovelled for for five years and thought more of than he did of any other man on earth--and for the fraction of a second old Dan MacCaffery looked into the other's eyes. "Give the boys in the caboose a chance for their lives, Billy, in case they ain't seen or heard us," he shouted in his fireman's ear. "Hold that whistle lever down." Twenty yards, fifteen between them--the 1608 in the reverse bucking like a maddened bronco, old Dan working with all the craft he knew at his levers--ten yards--and two men, scurrying like rats from a sinking ship, leaped from the tail of the caboose to the right of way. "Jump!" The word came like a half sob from old Dan. There was nothing more that any man could do. And he followed his fireman through the gangway. It made a mess--a nasty mess. From the standpoint of traffic, as nasty a mess as the Hill Division had ever faced. The rear of the freight went to matchwood, the 1608, the baggage and two Pullmans turned turtle, derailing the remaining cars behind; but, by a miracle, it seemed, there wasn't any one seriously hurt. Scared? Yes--pretty badly. The directors, a shaken, white-lipped crowd, poured out of the observation car to the track side. There was no cigar in H. Herrington Campbell's mouth. It was dark by then, but the wreckage caught fire and flung a yellow glow far across the cañon, and in a shadowy way lighted up the immediate surroundings. Train crews and engine crews of both trains hurried here and there, torches and lanterns began to splutter and wink, hoarse shouts began to echo back and forth, adding their quota to a weird medley of escaping steam and crackling flame. Regan, from a hasty consultation with old Dan MacCaffery and old Pete Chartrand, that sent the two men on the jump to carry out his orders, turned--to face H. Herrington Campbell. "Nobody hurt, sir--thank God!" puffed the fat little master mechanic, in honest relief. H. Herrington Campbell's eyes were on the retreating forms of the engineer and conductor. "Oh, indeed!" he said coldly. "And the whole affair is hardly worth mentioning, I take it--quite a common occurrence. You've got some pretty old men handling your trains out here, haven't you?" Regan's face went hard. "They're pretty good men," he said shortly. "And there's no blame coming to them for this, Mr. Campbell, if that's what you mean."