found voice in words. He was glad when the dinner was over at Thorne's,
and with the going of the mail sledge and the senior engineer there came
over him a still deeper sense of joy. Now _he_ was in charge, it was
_his_ road from that hour on. He crushed MacDonald's hand in a grip that
meant more than words when they parted. In his own cabin he threw off
his coat and hat, lighted his pipe, and tried to realize just what this
all meant for him. He was in charge--in charge of the greatest railroad
building job on earth--_he_, Jack Howland, who less than twenty years
ago was a barefooted, half-starved urchin peddling papers in the streets
where he was now famous! And now what was this black thing that had come
up to threaten his chances just as he had about won his great fight? He
clenched his hands as he thought again of what had already happened--the
cowardly attempt on his life, the warnings, and his blood boiled to
fever heat. That night--after he had seen Meleese--he would know what to
do. But he would not be driven away, as Gregson and Thorne had been
driven. He was determined on that.

The gloom of night falls early in the great northern mid-winter, and it
was already growing dusk when there came the sound of a voice outside,
followed a moment later by a loud knock at the door. At Howland's
invitation the door opened and the head and shoulders of a man appeared.

"Something has gone wrong out at the north coyote, sir, and Mr.
MacDonald wants you just as fast as you can get out there," he said. "He
sent me down for you with a sledge."

"MacDonald told me the thing was ready for firing," said Howland,
putting on his hat and coat. "What's the matter?"

"Bad packing, I guess. Heard him swearing about it. He's in a terrible