“Too late, too late!” mused McGuire, as the flames climbed to the top and a red tongue lipped the edge of the tank as a mad dog laps a running brook. Until now he had not thought of trying to escape, for only death had waited at the bottom, but seeing the Sioux hunting cover, he peered over the edge, and the smoke and flames were all about the ladder. Now the fire burst through and the smoke came up blinding and hot, and he took a last stand on the narrow bridge that ran over the top of the water tub. As he climbed up his hands touched the water in the tank, which till now he had not thought of. The tank was level full, and with his hands he began to scoop the water out, and in a little while succeeded in checking the fire that was eating round to the rear; but it was too far advanced in front, next to the track, to be put out so easily. With a great effort he managed to reach the rope that was fixed to the valve in the bottom of the tank, and when he had opened it the great volume of water rushed out and deadened the fire, so that by staying in the bottom of the empty tank McGuire was able to survive until the captain of the scouts and a couple of Pawnees reached the top of the charred structure and carried him, almost lifeless, into the fresh open air. “Little emergency runs like that,” said the superintendent to the engineer afterwards, “make men appreciate the value of time.” CHAPTER XVI McGUIRE GOES SWITCHING PUEBLO was a tough town when the Rio Grande terminated at that point. All the good men were going into the mountains, for Leadville was then sweating silver that was worth more than a dollar an ounce. To be sure there were always a few reliable men who could railroad, who knew nothing else, and would do nothing else. There were Dan Snyder, Steve Riley, Jud Rogers, Charlie Barnes, and Silversmith, old timers and stayers, whose signals were always safe, and upon these men the management depended to handle the trains and hold the “stormy” switchmen in line. It was at this swift outpost on the edge of the west that Tom McGuire tied up and asked Jim Williams, the “scrappy” yardmaster, for a job, switching in the yards. “Where ye frum?” asked Suicide Dick, the foreman, cocking his cigar in one corner of his mouth and then blowing rings of smoke into the twilight, as he strolled down the yard with the new man. “The U. P.” “Umaha?” “Yes.” “Know Pat Toohey?” “No.” “Then yer a liar, Mr. McGuire, ye never saw Umaha--gimme that glim.” Now, McGuire had never been called a liar. He was not a liar, and he knew it, but he gave the foreman the glim, just over the left eye. “You dam farmer,” said Dick, and that was all he said. He put down his white light and put up his hands.