He let his eyes rest upon the row of piers--one, two, three, four of them. What labor they had caused--how the men had sweat, and muttered, and toiled--how the foremen had cursed! Four piers of masonry rising out of the ghostly river. Very strong they must be, for the La Paz was not always gentle. In the spring and fall it was savage; and then it had an ugly way of undermining bridges, as those other foolish Americanos had learned to their cost when they built the wagon bridge at La Paz. He smiled lazily. But suddenly he sat up straight. A long thin figure of a man was moving about among the piles of timber. It was the señor Flint--and such a prowler as he was, day and night, night and day. He lived this bridge, did the señor; he thought it, he ate it, he drank it, he talked it, he slept it,--and for why? It could not be that he believed it living to think and breathe bridge and only bridge. It could not be that man was made for this--to become a slave to this trestle structure which was slowly crawling, like some monster centipede, across the sands of the La Paz. It was very good for the trestle perhaps, and the bridge, but was it so good for the señor? [Illustration: “... this trestle structure which was slowly crawling, like some monster centipede, across the sands of the La Paz.”] Antonio smiled again, and settled back; the señor was passing on. He was getting into a boat. He was poling across the languid, dimpling river. He was getting out on the farther bank; he was walking up the long slope, keeping out of the moonlight in the shadow of the trestle-thing; he was peering up toward the embattled ridge beyond, where lay the redoubtable Flagg. ... The cigarette dropped from Antonio’s unnerved fingers, and fell with a sizzling splash into the water below. He drew an involuntary quick breath, and the smoke in his nostrils went unexpectedly into his throat and made him cough. Then trembling a little, he got slowly to his feet and stood staring out there over the serene surface of the river. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. A shot,--two shots,--which was right? Two--no, one! And that insignificant little dark heap yonder in the moonlight--was that the señor? What a trouble!--and he had been so comfortable there on the abutment! Antonio was frightened. He thought of running away from these fate-tempting Americans; but in that case he would lose his pay and those Sundays at La Paz. He waited a while. Perhaps he was dreaming and would make himself ridiculous. He walked about, and tried different points of view. And at last he went to rouse his foreman.